Black Ghosts (19 page)

Edward hired the lone taxi waiting outside the station, a beat-up vehicle which was a Russian replica of a ‘57 Chevy. Only when it started to move did he realize that they had probably saved a bundle on the shocks. He read the address out loud to the driver, repeating it several times until the driver, with a sonorous “Da, da, okay,” indicated that he knew the way.

As they drove through the streets of Kirov, Edward searched the Russian phrase book he carried in his pocket. He realized it would have been smarter to bring Natalie with him on this excursion, but it was too late to worry about that now. Besides, Gregor had indicated that he was to come alone. They reached their destination, an apartment building in an undistinguished suburb. It seemed that the only difference between the various buildings was their height and the color of the laundry hanging from the front porches. Edward had the impression there was one basic plan for an apartment building which had been approved by the Supreme Soviet and then replicated over and over throughout Russia.

Edward wanted to be sure that the taxi driver would wait for him. The only thing he could think of was to tear up a ten-dollar bill and hand the driver half. There was no doubt in his mind that the man would be there when he came back out.

Time was running like sand from a broken hourglass. Not knowing the man he was about to meet, in an unknown city with a train that for all he knew might leave before the scheduled time because some businessman slipped a few rubles to the engineer, Edward climbed the staircase three at a time to the fifth floor, smelling a variety of dishes on his way up. He finally arrived at his destination and rang the bell. A big, morose-looking man opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.

“Gregor?” said Edward.

“Da?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Speak English?” asked Edward. The man's face softened a little. “American? Pazhahlsta, come.” He closed the door, unhooked the chain, then opened it wide.

They sat in the living room, which was simple and sparse in its furnishings and decoration. The air was stale with heavy body odor. It took Edward some time to explain who he was and why he was there. It appeared Gregor was waiting to verify that he was talking to the real Edward, the one his American friend had told him to expect.

Edward wasn't sure at first how far he could trust this man, but realizing he was still alive and free, he decided he had nothing to lose. Gregor listened. Edward explained that there was a conspiracy between Americans and Russians to bring back the good old days when everybody was killing everybody else and the military industry was making money. When he had finished, Gregor scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then he stood up. “Okay, we take drink,” he said, opening a dresser and pulling out a plain bottle with no label.

Edward shook his head. “I can't drink, my friend.”

The Russian opened his eyes wide. “Can't? What mean, can't? You mean not want.”

“I want more than you can imagine,” Edward said with a grin. “I'm on the bloody wagon.”

“What?”

“I'm an alcoholic.” The words were still hard to say.

“Me too! I love alcohol, good reason to drink.” He handed Edward the bottle.

“When I start, I can't stop.” Edward pushed the bottle back gently, hoping his host would understand.

“Not to worry. I have much bottles, drink how much you want.”

“Thanks, but no. I'm sick, you see. If I drink I can't do anything.”

“Okay, I give bottle na rodny, for road.”

Edward nodded with relief. He had passed the test again.

Gregor, it turned out, didn't mind drinking alone. He poured Edward a glass of water from the tap and settled down with the vodka bottle on the table in front of him. By now, he was beaming and talking volubly in his heavy, halting English.

“America wonderful country. I like go there. When I be rich man.” He laughed loudly. “Maybe you help I be rich man. We do business, good money, yes?”

Edward sipped his water and nodded noncommittally. Gregor was suddenly morose again, gazing through the window at a gray landscape of apartment buildings. “Ah, Rassia, what could be if you know how.” He turned his mournful eyes back to Edward. “We have problems. But we learn. We need vremya, you know, how say, time. Slowly, slowly.” He poured more vodka. “Now. You go to Moscva. What will you do in Moscva?”

“Gather information, mostly.”

“And what you do with information?”

“Try and stop a military coup.”

“Why you do this? You not Russian?”

“It's good for my country that your country is democratic. We don't want another war.”

Gregor's eyes widened. “Good. I help you. I have friends in Moscva.” He fetched a small brown notebook, from which he copied a name, address, and phone number on a scrap of paper, which he handed to Edward. “Here. This my friend. You need something, legal, no legal, he help.”

Edward looked at the paper. He took out his pen and a small notepad and coded the information for himself into what seemed a simple address in New York, then he handed the note back to Gregor.

“No. You take.” Gregor tried to push the paper into Edward's hand. “For you.”

“No need,” said Edward, “thank you.”

Gregor smiled. “Ah, professional. I like. My friends like. Good.”

Gregor drank more, saluting everything American he could name, from McDonald's to Cadillacs and then some, until Edward took his leave. As a parting gift of goodwill, Gregor presented him with a flask-shaped bottle of vodka that slipped easily into Edward's inside coat pocket. They shook hands and the big Russian hugged Edward and slapped him on the back, knocking the air out of his lungs. Gregor stood at the top of the staircase until Edward got to the bottom, where he could hear the big man cry after him, “Dus vidaniah, Tavasrish,” which by now Edward knew to mean “goodbye, my friend.” Outside, the taxi was waiting for him. Or, to be more exact, for the other half of the bill.

Back on the train, Edward went straight to the cabin. Natalie was standing by the wash basin, wearing her oversized T-shirt and, as far as Edward could see, not much else. She had an odd look in her eye that Edward could not quite fathom.

“Where were you?” she shot at him.

“I had to see someone.” Edward realized she was angry.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Everything's fine. You were asleep and I didn't want to wake you.”

“For God's sake, Edward. I'm not a little baby. You should have told me what you were doing.”

Edward was stuck for words. He stared at her for several seconds, then he said in a low but firm tone, “Let's get one thing straight here, Natalie. When it comes to the operational side of this journey, I tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. This is not an operation run by a committee, we don't take a vote on things or make mutual decisions, and I don't have to explain myself to you, or anybody else for that matter. Is that clear?”

Natalie sat on the bunk, looking away from him. She burst into tears. “I thought something terrible had happened.”

He sat next to her on the bunk and took her in his arms. “I was so worried about you,” she sobbed. He pulled her closer to him, stroking her back, trying to soothe away the tears. She buried her face in his neck, and he breathed the warm fresh scent of her hair. He felt a tightness in his groin and a pleasant weakness in his chest. But he could do nothing about it. His role here was that of comforter, not seducer.

Natalie lifted her head and sniffed. Seen like this, her face streaked with tears, she looked even more beautiful.

“I'm sorry I cried. It's not like me,” she said finally.

“It's okay.” He leaned his head on hers. For a long time they sat there in each other's arms, until the Trans-Siberian started rolling again. She turned her head and watched as the station house and the deserted platform slowly moved away, clearing the view for more of Russia's endless forests.

Natalie slid a cold hand under Edward's shirt and slowly ran her hand across his chest. Rolling to one side, she lifted her leg across his thigh, her T-shirt riding up. He realized he was right: She had nothing under the shirt but herself. He drew her closer to him, searching with his lips for hers, his hand pressing against the small of her back. Slowly, bit by bit, she helped him off with his clothes, kissing every part as it was exposed. He, in turn, ran his lips over her soft skin, breathing in her scent, drinking it, feeling his head drift with it. Then, as though in a slow dance through a perfumed dream, they were naked, swaying on the narrow bunk. Her slim, soft body motioned slowly in his arms. Kissing his chest she coiled slowly, sliding down his body like a gentle wave, teasing him to the point of ecstasy.

Then, kissing her way back, she lifted herself gradually, standing as high as the upper bunk would allow before returning to unite with him. He felt the smooth warmth as she slowly took him in, seating herself on him, letting the gentle motion of the train dictate the rhythm as it rolled onward to Moscow.

 

The taxi sped through the broad, frozen streets of the big city. Although Natalie was curled up close to him on the car seat, Edward had an empty feeling of loneliness, an underlying anxiety about the unknown that was gaining on him with every passing minute. This could very well be his last encounter with freedom for a very long time—or even his last day alive. Not knowing who was waiting for him, and why, was taking its toll. At first glance, Moscow was extremely reserved, lacking the friendly bustle of a Western city. The wide streets seemed distant and formidable.

Automatically, before he even realized it, he had snapped into operational mode, his attention focused on every detail that might affect his survival. He was learning the terrain, familiarizing himself with the rhythm of the place. His emotions were compressed into a tiny knot somewhere in his guts. It was that which caused the loneliness. As experience and training had taught him, the only person you could count on to get you out of trouble was yourself. But it wasn't only himself he had to look out for.

Edward was glad of Natalie's company, of the intimacy they had shared, and he was hopeful it would continue. If he could only leave her in a safe place and keep her there while he took care of the business at hand. He felt something for her. He wasn't quite sure yet what it was, but he liked it. Still, there was something odd about her that he just could not put his finger on. She was like a moon rock, the kind children used to get out of Cracker Jack boxes, changing colors almost to fit with his moods.

Natalie still had her apartment out on the Kalinina Prospekt, in the western part of the city, but they had decided against using it. There was no way to know if it was still under surveillance by the people who had wanted her dead.

They checked into the Hotel Metropole, a large, old-fashioned monument to what Russia could have been if it had only been allowed. In contrast to its welcoming glow and old imperial charm of gilded mirrors and marble columns, the clerk behind the oak counter under the sign reading “Registration” had a bored, sullen look, and although Edward couldn't understand what he was saying, his tone was obviously less than cordial. At last, after many surly looks and irritable remarks, he handed them their key and turned away with an insolent air to stare at the wall.

“What was that all about?” Edward asked as they made their way up to the room.

“Nothing much. It's par for the course around here.”

“How come?”

“These people haven't had to be polite to their guests for seventy years. It's going to take a while for them to change their ways, and there's very few who can teach them how.”

The room was clean and airy. The en suite bathroom was spacious and exhibited a sunken bath. When she saw it, Natalie's eyes lit up. She turned on one of the brass taps, and after a short cacophony of coughing air, it finally issued gushes of cold water which gradually turned steaming hot.

“Check this out,” she said, looking at Edward with laughing eyes. “After four days on that lousy train, I'm ready for this.” Before he could say anything she was naked and testing the steaming water with her toe. There was a mischievous expression on her face. “Care to join me?”

Edward was as clean as could be by the time they were dressed for dinner. He felt he was in the eye of the storm, where the quiet and serenity were temporary. He had a sensation that he was being watched but, not giving way to the constant enemy of covert activity, paranoia, he dismissed it. No one knew which hotel they were going to stay at, and he had not yet made contact with anyone. Considering these two facts, there was no possible way for him to be under surveillance unless their entire operation leaked badly. And that was not an option he could check out at the moment. Nevertheless, he knew he would feel more secure if he had a weapon. Bringing his snub-nosed revolver through Russian customs, of course, had been out of the question. He decided to make use of Larry's contact from the British Embassy. He called the number Larry had given him.

“I can get you a Luger at very short notice,” said a British-accented voice when Edward had explained who he was and what he wanted. “Would that do?”

They agreed to meet in the ground-floor washroom of the Metropole at eleven. Edward would bring the five hundred dollars, and the man named Smythe—he had sternly corrected Edward when the latter had called him “Smith”—would bring the gun. Feeling reassured by this arrangement, Edward announced to Natalie that he was ready for dinner.