Edge of Valor (43 page)

Helen leaned into him. “Todd, honey.”

He turned to her. “Did you know Ollie saved my life more than once?”

“You sort of implied it.”

“We hated him on Corregidor. He got scared during a Jap air attack and froze up when his shipmates were in trouble. Two of my men died. Not really his fault, but it looked like it. Maybe he could have done something, maybe not. But everybody wanted to kill him, and he let them feel that way. They literally threw him off the dock and into the
51
boat when we shoved off from Caballo. Everybody ignored him, even me.

“But then I got chickenitis too. There were a couple of times when I froze. Once on Marinduque and once when we rescued you. I froze at the trigger. But Ollie was right there backing me up, killing people who were trying to kill me. He saved my life more than once because I became a coward. I really shouldn't be here.”

“I . . . didn't know that.”

He took a deep breath and looked squarely at Raduga. “This is the first time I've talked about this. And I really didn't mean to. It just came out.”

“It's okay, Todd. That's why we're here,” said Raduga.

Helen ran a hand through his hair. “You should have said something, Todd. I've been making this all about me.”

“Couldn't. Big . . . tough . . . guy.”

“Todd.”

“I'm yellow.” He clinched his fists. “Yellow with two Navy Crosses I don't deserve.”

“Todd, come on.”

He took a deep breath. “Weeeow. Can you believe this? Shooting off my mouth. I'm sorry.” He looked up. “But I think I've beaten it. The belladonna and a caring wife got me through this.”

Raduga said, “So, you're okay for now?”

“I'll tell you. Coming home to Helen and not getting shot at helps a lot.”

“Oftentimes that's all it takes. But if the nightmares continue, why don't you go to the Terminal Island Naval Hospital. I'm Army, remember?”

“That's a career killer. Someone finds out I'm seeing a shrink and they close the record. Period. I'll get drummed out. This has to be off the record.”

“Tell you what, Todd. Let's have coffee again next Friday and we'll talk some more. See how you're doing. But I can't make any promises, especially with the off-the-record stuff. That wouldn't be ethical.”

“Pardon?”

“You're Navy, I'm Army, and that's okay. But still, I'm trained and certified to comment and make recommendations on your fitness for duty. I'd be derelict if I found you unfit and didn't do something about it.”

“Oh.”

“What I can say is that I can keep this off the record unless something is seriously wrong, which in my humble opinion is not the case.”

Now it was Ingram's turn to stir coffee. “Fair enough.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

10 September 1945

Pacific Fleet Headquarters, Voyenno Morskoy Flot, Vladivostok, USSR

M
any visitors to Vladivostok, a city of high, rolling hills and sweeping vistas, have compared it to San Francisco. The summer fog that obscured Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev's vision made the comparison even more apt. He couldn't see ten feet ahead as he stepped from the Jeep and hobbled up the steps of the faux-colonial building overlooking Vladivostok harbor. He found it even more difficult to open the front door.

Dezhnev dreaded this meeting with Captain First Rank Gennady Kulibin, commanding officer of the NKVD's special naval forces for the Pacific region, and his CO. Although Kulibin was the son of a Politburo member, he was more of a soldier than a politician, and that gave Dezhnev cause for concern. Kulibin had always been fair, but Dezhnev had no idea what to expect from the sudden summons. This was their first meeting since his disastrous visit to the USS
Missouri
a week ago. For all Dezhnev knew, his body could soon be sailing into a mass grave to join the corpses of the thousands of Japanese and pro–Chiang Kai-shek supporters the Soviets had captured in the last few weeks.

A barrel-chested leading seaman with close-cropped hair sat at a desk in the lobby. Dezhnev expected the man to be half asleep. With the war over, a relaxed atmosphere had fallen over Vladivostok—as it had all over Russia. But not here. This man was on his toes. A thick scar running from his right ear to the top of his eyebrow told the story. C
ombat proven. No one to trifle with
.

Dezhnev handed over his ID. The man examined it, checked the photograph, looked Dezhnev up and down, and then handed it back. He picked up a journal and checked a date, saying, “Captain Kulibin is expecting you. Top floor, room 402.” He nodded to a flight of stairs.

Dezhnev groaned. It would take forever to negotiate all those steps. “Very well.” He pocketed his ID and limped toward the stairs.

“Sir!” The man stood and walked over. “Perhaps you could follow me?”

“What for?”

“There is a VIP elevator.” He whistled for an aide to take over, then led Dezhnev down the hall. Taking a key from his pocket he opened a door, revealing an ornate elevator cage large enough for two people. “Perhaps this will be better?” he said studying Dezhnev's campaign ribbons.

“Much better.”

The elevator ground and clanked its way to the fourth floor. The leading seaman opened the cage with a nod. “Just push the buzzer on the call panel when you're ready, sir, and I'll come and get you.”

“I can make it down all right. Thanks.” Dezhnev stepped out and made his way to room 402. He knocked.

“Enter,” a voice rumbled.

Dezhnev walked in. “Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev reporting, sir.”

The office was small, with a couch on one wall, a bookcase on the other, and books and papers stacked on every horizontal surface. Dirty windows and the fog blocked what would otherwise have been a glorious view of Vladivostok. Captain First Rank Gennady Kulibin sat precariously in a tilted-back chair, his feet propped on a heavily chipped ornate wooden desk that looked as if it might once have belonged to Czar Nicholas II. His tunic hung on a coat rack, and his sleeves were rolled up. “Ahhh, Dezhnev. Come in, come in.” He beckoned and lay down a sheaf of papers.

Dezhnev walked in and stood at parade rest.

“Comrade, you are not here to be pilloried, I assure you. Please sit.”

Dezhnev sat stiffly.

“Relax, damn it.” Kulibin's feet were still up, leaning him back at an impossible angle; his hands were laced behind his bald head. He didn't weigh a lot, no more than 175 pounds on a 5-foot 10-inch frame; otherwise, Dezhnev was sure, the chair would have given way beneath him. A neatly trimmed full beard offset Kulibin's baldness and emphasized his bushy black eyebrows and impenetrable dark eyes. A large black mole protruding from his left cheek made Dezhnev wonder if he picked at it.

Kulibin waved to the fog outside the window. “This weather is for the shits. Can't see a thing. Was it like this in San Francisco?”

“Worse.” Dezhnev did his best to look at ease while certain that an operative stood behind him ready to shove a pistol behind his ear and pull the trigger. With great difficulty he suppressed an impulse to turn around and look.

Kulibin repeated himself. “It's all right, comrade. Please.” He waved a hand toward an electric coffee pot.

Dezhnev sniffed. The coffee smelled wonderful. “No thank you, Captain. I just had breakfast.”

Kulibin dropped his feet to the floor, hitting it with a great thump. His chair rotated forward. “Well, I need a refill, damn it.” He rose and walked over to the coffee service and poured a cup. He looked over his shoulder, waving the carafe in the air. “You sure?”

“No thank you, Captain. It keys me up.”

Kulibin shrugged, finished pouring, and returned to his desk, again propping up his feet. “Say, you want two tickets to the opera tonight?”

“What's playing?”

“American stuff.
Showboat
.”

Dezhnev knew every song, every line, in
Showboat
by heart. His trainers at Bykovo had shown the film time and time again, immersing their students in American music and films. “Better not. I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Front-row seats. Not a box, but front row.”

“I'd really like to but . . .”

“If it's a matter of a date, I could fix you up with Lyudmila, one of our radio girls on the second floor. She's really a hot one and she knows music. Her . . . rhythm is exceptional, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

“No, sir. I really appreciate it, but I'd better not.”

“Suit yourself.” Kulibin raised his mug and sipped, looking over the brim at Dezhnev. “How did your photos turn out?”

“Some didn't.”

“Oh?”

Dezhnev knew he was on safe ground at this point. Kulibin would have known about the photographic blunder because Dezhnev had already sent the other roll ahead in the diplomatic pouch along with an explanation of the incident.

He's pulling me through a knothole and wants to see me wiggle
. Nevertheless, Dezhnev explained everything in detail, including how Ingram's friends exposed one of his best rolls of film.

Kulibin waved a hand. “We have other photos and intelligence. Don't worry about that.”

Dezhnev sat back, an alarm going off in his head. There was something in Kulibin's tone. What else was there to worry about? Sakhalin? As instructed, Dezhnev had allowed the Americans to escape. He could have easily shot them down. So it can't be about that.
Then why the hell am I here?

Kulibin sipped his coffee and looked around his cluttered office. Then he said quietly, “This is, ahhh, very sensitive. I had the room swept just this morning.”

Swept? What the hell is going on?
Again Dezhnev was bolt upright.

“Yes, look, it's about—all right. I was in Moscow two months ago.”

“I recall.”

Kulibin was fidgeting. “I didn't tell you this. Your mother was there. It was an opening night.”

“What?” His mother had written recently that with victory in the Great Patriotic War, there was a stampede to make movies about beating the Nazis. Although not a young woman by any stretch of the imagination, Anoushka Dezhnev at forty-nine was still beautiful and in demand for mature roles. She had just finished eight weeks of shooting for
Challenge of Darkness
, about the siege of Stalingrad. She'd played the tragic Nikka, wife of a Soviet artillery colonel killed in the final days of the siege.

“Eduard, please. Sit.”

Dezhnev didn't realize that he had jumped to his feet. He sat.

“Anyway. There was a party later, and we met and we . . .”

“I see.” He knew Anoushka had occasionally seen other men since the death of his father, Vadim Dezhnev, four years ago. But as far as Dezhnev knew she hadn't really been interested in any of them.

“Well, as I said, we met at the party and . . . well . . .”

“I get it.”

“Nothing serious, you know.”

“Nothing serious.”

“Well . . .”

The silence shouted at them. The obviously embarrassed Kulibin was having difficulty. But Dezhnev figured his superior officer didn't need his permission to date Anoushka. His mother was an unmarried woman, a widow among many thousands, and there was a war on. Until now.

Dezhnev kept quiet.

At length Kulibin said, “Something has come up.”

“Sir?”

“Beria was at the same party.”

“Shit!” said Dezhnev. His heart froze in his chest and the blood drained from his head. Lavrenti Beria was commissar of state security under Generalissimo Josef Stalin and the head of Narodnyi Kommissariat Vnutrennikh del—the NKVD. Beria was the second most powerful man in the Soviet Union. Over the past two decades he had ordered the deaths of millions, including many military officers.