Paul Vidich - The Mercenary

“Langley was also astonished that I survived. No one could believe that I got through ten cold days and nights without food wearing only my light parka. So, those skeptical minds assumed that I had been allowed to escape because I had collaborated with the KGB. They had made up their minds. A few were uncertain, but unproven suspicion is the end of trust—and the end of trust is the death of an intelligence officer’s career.”

Garin concluded, “And here I am again. Rositske doesn’t trust me. Maybe you shouldn’t either. But I’m here. What do you want me to do?”

“Find out what they want from you.”

“And risk GAMBIT?”

“Let them play their hand. You’re here. You won’t get out of the Soviet Union unless it’s with GAMBIT.”

Garin heard the threat. He lifted his eyes to the curious faces outside, then turned back to the speakerphone when Mueller spoke again.

“GAMBIT’s copier is being watched because we have a leak in Moscow Station that’s compromising this mission. Let’s square the circle. Exfil GAMBIT and plug the leak. We’ll give them corrupted information to lead them away from GAMBIT. Both of you will get out at the same time.”

Garin stared at the red light. “I’m the bait?”

There was a long silence. Garin felt the muscles in his neck constrict. He saw Ronnie, still staring at him through the Plexiglas. “It’s easy for you to make the call,” he said. “You’re in Washington. I’m the one who is being asked to climb out of the trench and into the line of fire. Well, I didn’t sign on for that. I don’t want to find myself in Lubyanka with a pistol to my head.”

“Calm down, Alek. It’s a simple entrapment that we’re turning against them. If it gets uncomfortable, we’ll bring you back inside.”

Silence lingered. Mueller spoke again. “The White House is asking for updates.”

“Make something up,” Garin snarled. “Tell them everything is fine. Lie to them, George. Use your talents.”

“I’ll make sure you get the credit when it’s over. It will clear your record.”

“I don’t give a fuck about my record.” Garin slammed his hand onto the red button, disconnecting the call.

GARIN DREW A frigid bath when he got to his apartment. The prostitute had been outside again, and he had been tempted to use her to relax, but instincts warned him off. Shockingly cold water surrounded him when he slipped into the tub, and his breath quickened, but he tolerated the temperature. It bothered him to think of himself caught between Agency bureaucrats, who reduced his life to a few debriefing remarks between sips of coffee, and the diligent KGB. He felt used and angry. He never wanted to find himself at risk in Moscow again. He felt old contempt for Agency puppeteers moving his arms and legs in a flippantly pedestrian production of espionage commedia dell’arte.

Garin pondered his bad choices. He remembered Rositske’s and Ronnie’s startled faces when he’d walked out of the Bubble, and he enjoyed thinking they were mad with worry that he was abandoning the operation. He put his lips to a newly opened bottle and coughed at the metallic taste. Tainted vodka . He emptied the solvent alcohol into the toilet.

A thought struck him when he slipped back into the frigid water. Not all missions succeeded. He should get out now. He had lived the world of two lives—one open, seen, and known to all who cared, and the other running its course in secret, unknown to all except his KGB handlers. And then he’d been compromised, turned, and everything had changed, wearing a mask over his mask. The lies had been harder to keep up, and he’d struggled to keep the layers of deception straight, knowing that a single mistake could be fatal.

He contemplated the steady torture that would come from suspecting every stranger’s gaze, the caution of what to say, what to avoid, hoarding his words, living every moment with his old fear of being hunted. If things got unbearable, he could cut and run.

But could he? His old contacts in the Ukrainian mafia would happily accept hard currency to arrange safe passage on a freighter out of Kiev, but he knew them, their corruption. Taking his cash, turning on him.

There was only one way forward.

GARIN DID HIS BEST TO keep his mind on the performance. He sat in an aisle seat a few rows back from the orchestra pit with a good view of the stage. Tchaikovsky’s glorious music and the ballerinas’ graceful movements helped unwind his wariness and put him in a pleasant mood. There came a time when he ceased to be aware of Comrade Posner, who sat in the adjacent seat, and Natalya, who was farthest from the aisle.

The curtain came down at intermission and the house lights came up, bringing the audience to its feet with applause. Light from the overhead chandelier deepened the scarlet velvet seats and brightened the packed house.

“Do you like it so far?” Posner asked.

“I wanted to like it,” Garin said. He had seen many worse productions in New York and London, but they didn’t know he was fond of ballet. “I didn’t expect to like it.”

“Well, then, success.” Natalya leaned across Comrade Posner toward Garin. “Every night, they perform to this same standard of perfection. That is why they are the world’s best. Every night, they transport the audience to an imaginary place and we all forget our lives for a moment.”

She rose from her chair, and as she did, her willowy figure wrapped in its colorful shawl drew the gaze of lumpish men standing nearby. She tossed the shawl over her shoulder, covering her white silk blouse, which made her look as if she belonged onstage. Lightly brushed pancake makeup on her forehead covered her remnant bruise.

They joined intermission’s exodus to the lobby. Natalya wasn’t the only fashionably dressed woman, but her lustrous hair, glistening pearls, and scarlet lipstick made her the most striking. Her confident walk and contemptuous smile gave her seductive charm.

Posner nodded at a Soviet Army general with a chest full of medals, and without turning his head, he whispered to Garin, “He is the deputy director, GRU. He nodded at me, but he noticed you. No one is invisible here. This is one of the few places where it is appropriate to be seen. I am sure someone is already asking who you are.” He abruptly changed the subject. “Natalya’s debut performance in this opera brought her great attention.” He looked at Natalya. “Do you mind if I tell the story?”

“It’s stupid,” she said.

“But worth telling, Natasha.” He turned to Garin. “She was magnificent throughout, but her brilliance came in the fourth act, when Odette is distraught. You’ll see it when intermission is over. It’s the scene when the swan maidens try to comfort her, and Siegfried returns to make a passionate apology. Rather than remain a swan forever, Odette choses to die, and Siegfried choses to go with her, forever united in love.”

“You’re spoiling everything for him,” Natalya said. “He doesn’t know the story.”

Posner raised a hand. “It is beautifully tragic, and she performed it perfectly. The audience was mesmerized. When the curtain came down, the audience leapt to its feet in wild applause. She won over the skeptics—of which there were many—and then the next week, having performed so brilliantly and earned high praise, she also became the object of vicious jealousy.”

Natalya swatted Posner’s hand when he pointed to her ankle with its flesh-colored wrap. “You would exaggerate the time of day if you could,” she said, and turned to Garin. “Don’t ever let him see your weakness. He will never forget it.”

A trio of blinking lights signaled the end of intermission. An usher approached Posner, handing him an envelope. After reading it, he looked at his companions with grave eyes.