The Red Eagles (14 page)

Kuznetsky examined the window. It was large enough but he couldn’t get it open. It would have to be the door outside. He eased the toilet door open, found the vestibule empty, and dragged Richard out and into an upright position. Just in time. Someone passed by on his way to the club car, taking only a cursory glance at the two men standing in apparent conversation by the door.

Kuznetsky let Richard slide to the floor and jerked open the outside door. The force of the train’s passage blew it back, but he managed to push the folding steps out and down, jamming it open, and then, with both arms and a leg, to scoop Richard out. For a few moments Richard’s feet were trapped in the steps, his head bouncing on the rushing tracks, but then the body was gone, sucked into darkness. Kuznetsky pulled back the stairs, let the wind close the door, and stood there, his pulse racing, his mind a jumble of deaths.

The church emptied its flock as Joe and Amy drove into Scottsboro, the men in their best string ties, the women in their pastel frocks. If the coattails and the hem lines had been longer it could have been a scene from
Gone With the Wind
. There were even a few horse-drawn buggies mingling with the farm pickups and rusty Cadillacs.

Joe pulled the car up outside the realtor’s house, climbed out, and walked up to the door. An elderly black woman ushered him inside. Amy examined her face in the rearview mirror; she looked as tired as she felt. This time the drive had seemed longer and felt different; this time she was leaving Washington, her family, the few friends she had forever. Soon she would be leaving America, her adopted home for more than twenty years. She would miss her uncle. James too, if he survived.

She wondered if Kuznetsky – she must remember to call him Smith – if he had such feelings. She couldn’t make him out. He seemed a reflection of the world rather than one of its inhabitants, like a force of nature – no, like a force of the opposite, of human order …

She had once read a novel, an awful novel called
Orphans
of the Storm
, and, being a fourteen-year-old orphan at the time, had romantically identified herself with its title. But Kuznetsky really did seem to fit the words, he seemed to carry the storm within him, to live in it, to deal it out in controlled bursts. And that was why, she realized, she felt no
fear of him. There was nothing irrational in his actions, nothing at all. He would succeed in this operation or die trying, would kill or die without hesitation.

She could see Joe through the window talking to the realtor. Why was he taking so long? He’d hardly spoken during the long journey and seemed to have lost his cockiness. She guessed that he’d suddenly realized that it wasn’t a game, that the master plan might go wrong, that the Feds he so despised might strap
him
into an electric chair. But he would come through, she was sure. His pride wouldn’t let him back out. It was a pity that such determination should be wasted on such a twisted morality.

And you?
she asked the mirror.
Where are you going?
What would the Soviet Union be like? Once she had longed to see Moscow, Leningrad, the other side, her side, but now she felt almost indifferent. The thought of a new life seemed unreal, anticlimatic, not so much a beginning as an end.

Joe came out of the house, keys in hand, and climbed back behind the wheel.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t stop talking. Nothing important.”

An hour later they reached the lodge, and while he unloaded the supplies they’d brought from Washington, she lit the wood stove and made coffee. But by the time it was ready she found him fast asleep on one of the bunks. She drank her own cup, smoked a cigarette, and stared at the three shiny tommy guns leaning against a wall. She felt more tired than sleepy, and after concealing the guns under a bunk, went outside.

It wasn’t so hot under the trees, and she found herself walking farther and farther along the side of the ridge, taking a sensual pleasure in the play of colors, the panoramic views, and the feel of the forest floor. After half a mile or so she spotted a clear green pool in a hollow below and walked down to it through the pines. Looking at the water made her
feel twice as sticky. “Why not?” she murmured to herself, looking around to make sure that the silent pines were the only witnesses. She stripped off her clothes, piled them on a rock, and waded into the water. It was only a few feet deep at the pool’s center, and for several minutes she floated on her back, wallowing in the delicious coolness.

Lying on the rock to dry herself, she felt a sexual tremble run through her body. She touched herself, at first tentatively, then with a pleasure she had not known for years. His face was clear in her mind, the ivory light shining in through the porthole, the feeling of not knowing where the one ended and the other began.

She opened her eyes. Physically satisfied, she had never felt so alone. The trees towered over her, both graceful and threatening. She sat up, feeling suddenly cold, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Joe was awake when she got back to the lodge, seeming more like his normal self. Perhaps he’d just been tired.

“Where are the guns?” he asked. “Found a swimming pool, I see,” he added, noticing her wet hair.

“Under the bed in the middle room, and yes,” she said, brushing past him. “I’m going to try and sleep now.”

“If you hear gunfire, it’ll be me testing them,” he called after her.

She took the room farthest from his and lay down, feeling tired and confused. The tiredness triumphed, and when he woke her the light had gone and the lodge was full of the smell of cooking. “Just some canned goods,” he said as she entered the kitchen. “I didn’t find anything to shoot.”

“The guns are okay?”

“Yep.”

They ate in silence, and washed down the meal with strong coffee. “Do you play checkers?” he asked. She nodded and got up to wash the dishes while he set up the
board. They played several games, and he won all but the last. She was convinced he’d lost it on purpose, a thought that almost brought back the tears. What was the matter with her? She suddenly had a picture of jailers playing such a game with the man in the condemned cell, the man feeling sorry for the jailers. It was too much. She had to be alone, physically alone.

He watched her leave the room and felt slightly worried. The whole business was obviously getting to her. He’d hated the idea of working with a woman from the beginning, but had reluctantly conceded to himself that in her case he’d been wrong. She knew what she was doing, and until now she’d shown no trace of nerves at all. Perhaps she needed some comforting, physical comforting. She wasn’t his type – he preferred women with more flesh on them – but …

He knocked softly on her door, put his head around it. “Don’t suppose you want some company?” he asked softly.

“No,” she replied coldly. “Thank you,” she added more gently, “but no.”

“Just thought I’d ask,” he said cheerfully. “Sleep well.”

He lit a cigarette and went outside. Her part was almost over in any case. He and the Germans would do the rest – give all those fucking Yankee liberals a jolt they’d never forget. Two more days.

And then, as I stand up, the stars and the Great Bear glimmer up there like bars above a silent cell
. The poem was beginning to haunt him, to follow him around like a running commentary on his life.
In the goods station yard I flattened myself against the foot of the tree like a slice of silence
… Well, that had been a Hungarian goods station yard, not this one. There were no trees in this one, no
gray weeds
…
lustrous, dew-laden coal lumps
.

Kuznetsky had checked into the hotel in Bridgeport late that evening and been given, without knowing it, the same
room Joe and Amy had used for their earlier vigil. He’d walked down to the station, awakened the sleeping clerk to inquire about the next day’s trains, and familiarized himself with the layout of the yard. A tree would have been useful, but the decrepit boxcar in the siding adjoining the main line would serve the same purpose. Everything seemed as Amy had reported it.

Now, back in his room, he sat by the window, staring across at the darkened yard, wishing he had a Russian cigarette. He thought he could detect the first hint of moonlight; five days hence it would be earlier, making this end of the operation harder, but the other end easier.
The cat can’t catch mice inside and outside at the same time
. True. And somewhat facile in this context. It was time he got some sleep.

Next morning he took his car in for a final checkup, arranged to collect it that evening, and walked down to the station. Waiting for his train, he again checked the layout of the yard, measuring distances in his mind, calculating the safest angle of approach.

The train was on time, a good omen, and almost empty. A group of boys in uniform, presumably on their last leave before going overseas, were good-naturedly pestering a solitary young woman. She seemed to be enjoying the attention. Kuznetsky took a window seat and set out to memorize the route. For half an hour they chugged down the valley, mountains to the right, the river occasionally visible several miles away to the left. The train stopped at every country junction, though no one seemed to get on or off. The conductor inspected his ticket, tried in vain to start up a conversation about some circus fire in Connecticut, and took out his irritation on one of the young soldiers who’d had the temerity to soil the upholstery with a dirty boot.

After stopping in Scottsboro, the train climbed away from the main valley and up into the hills. It stopped in Larkinsville but not at Lim Rock, which looked like a ghost town. A few
minutes later it passed the point where the old mining spur diverged, and Kuznetsky had a brief glimpse of the narrow Coon Creek Valley stretching north toward a high ridge.

Thirty-five minutes later the train pulled into Huntsville. Kuznetsky got off, had some lunch, and spent several hours sitting on a park bench with nothing but his thoughts. He remembered how, when he’d first lived with Russians, their slowness, their ability to sit doing nothing for hours, had infuriated him, partly because they could, partly because he couldn’t. Since arriving back in America he’d had the opposite sensation: everyone seemed so impatient, so determined to be doing things, so incapable of just being. It was sad. Amusing as well.

He walked back toward the station and was about to cross the road outside when a familiar black Buick cruised past. He and Amy exchanged indifferent glances.

Amy felt relief at seeing Kuznetsky. She had no doubts about his efficiency, but it was still good to be certain that he was around. That morning she’d suddenly imagined his being killed in some ridiculous accident and Joe coming back to the lodge with the Germans. What would she do then?

She checked in the mirror to see that the camper Joe was driving was still following her as she took the Scottsboro road. Everything was going so smoothly, it was almost too good to be true. She and Joe had spent the day driving to and from Birmingham, where they had picked up the camper, complete with fishing rods, hunting rifles, and enough food for a businessmen’s sporting holiday. Unknown to Joe, Amy had also been checking out their eventual escape route, making sure that there would be no unexpected impediments to their flight. According to the radio, some bridges along the route had collapsed in the summer storms, but the road to Birmingham was clear.

They arrived back at the lodge as the last rays of the sun
cleared the ridge, and Joe started preparing supper. He obviously enjoyed cooking, if only from cans. Amy pulled some water up from the well and washed herself. In thirty-six hours the Germans would be here.

“Where are you headed when it’s over?” Joe asked.

“Back to Washington.”

“It’ll be a bit tame after this, won’t it?”

“Joe, what are
you
in this for?” She hadn’t meant to ask, hadn’t wanted to know, but the question came out just the same.

He stirred the corned-beef hash thoughtfully. “Funny you should ask that,” he said finally. “Don’t get me wrong – I believe in the German cause, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that they’ve lost this war. Maybe what we’re doing will change things, but to be honest, I doubt it. It’s a mixture, I guess. Idealism, adventure, getting my own back …”

“Own what?”

“My family used to own a farm up the valley, near Louden. It wasn’t big, but it was beautiful. My folks just lived their life, hell, my pa was even good to the niggers, lot of good it did him. Then one day, just like that, man from Washington knocked on the door. It was 1935. Told us that in a coupla years time our land would be at the bottom of a lake. Nothing we could do about it. Pa just gave up, died rather than see the land drowned. And Ma died because she couldn’t live without him. Government killed them both, men in Washington who didn’t give a damn about people.”

Amy couldn’t think of anything to say.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’m a German.”

“Yeah, but there’s a lot of Germans fighting for the U.S. of A.”

“Not
real
Germans.”

“Maybe.”

“And my father died in the first war.”

“Where?”

“Tannenberg.”

“It must be worse dying in a battle that your side’s won.”

“I doubt if he knew.”

“No, I meant for the relatives. Seems more of a waste somehow. Crazy, I know. Tannenberg was a fascinating battle …” He went on to discuss the merits of Ludendorff’s strategy, stirring the hash, completely oblivious to the fact that Amy might find the topic distressing.

She wasn’t even listening. He died rather than see the land drowned. She couldn’t understand a person feeling like that. She’d lived in big cities all her life. She looked at Joe, suddenly seeing him as a farm boy in city clothes. They shared a need for revenge if nothing else.

After supper they played checkers again, but this time she didn’t win a single game and there was no tap on her bedroom door. She lay in bed and tried to consciously relive the past, those dreadful nights in Berlin that now seemed so long ago. But the anger that had lain so long so close to the surface had either burrowed deeper or been eroded by time; she wasn’t sure which. Images of Effi kept interrupting her thoughts, images of her as a seven-year-old, happy, laughing, running through the Tiergarten with her socks around her ankles and one pigtail half-unraveled.

Forty miles up the valley, on the stroke of midnight, Kuznetsky called the number in Washington.

“Yes?” the voice asked.

“American Rose.”

“Melville says that train will do fine.”

He put back the receiver, walked along the corridor to tell the night clerk that he wanted an early call. Tomorrow – no, today – he would kill Joe Markham.
Only what will be is a flower, what is crumbles into fragments
.