Paul Vidich - The Mercenary

He heard her question and saw her hand reach for his jacket, and he reacted badly, brusquely pushing her away. Then an apology. “Let’s talk tomorrow. I’ll explain when I’m feeling better.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Garin was walking along Tchaikovsky Street when a car pulled up alongside. Through the lowered window, he saw Helen Walsh.

“Get in,” she said. “I would have offered you a ride if I had known you were walking.” When he hesitated, she added, “You’ll freeze.”

He sat in the front seat.

“Where do you live?”

“Kutuzovsky Prospekt.”

“It’s on my way.”

She sped up for a block and suddenly braked into a U-turn, confirming that the KGB surveillance car following them was lost. “You’ll get the hang of things in another month or so,” she said. “Some day when there’s world peace, we’ll sit down with our KGB counterparts and have a good laugh about the games we play.” She glanced at him nervously. “How long is your posting?”

“Two years.”

“That long?” She raised an eyebrow. “I heard less. Special assignment. Where are you from?”

“Nowhere, really. Moved around a lot.” Garin looked over his shoulder.

“I lost them two turns back. The car behind us is a civilian Lada. No antenna.”

They arrived at Garin’s apartment block, empty of traffic at that hour, but there was no parking, so Helen let him out on the street. He had the uncomfortable sensation that she was staring at him when he opened the door.

“Feel better.”

Metallic light from the full moon came through skeletal trees and cast shadows on Garin as he walked toward the lobby. He saw that the twenty-four-hour security guard was gone, but the local prostitute smoked a cigarette by a parked car, blowing kisses. The lobby’s bright light was a beacon ahead, and then he heard a car door open.

“You forgot this.”

Helen Walsh walked quickly toward him, gripping an object. At first, he thought it was a pen, and he reached into his pocket to confirm his Montblanc was missing. Then he saw her raised arm. He had been momentarily distracted, but when his eyes came off his jacket pocket, he saw that she had closed the distance in a sprint. Moonlight reflected off the syringe in her raised fist. She was upon him when he saw her fierce eyes and determined intent—and the glinting needle coming at his neck.

He had raised his hand to block her attack, but a figure emerged from the shadows and tackled Walsh. There was a violent scuffle and muffled grunts that became a deep-throated scream. The person had blunted the force of Helen’s attack and reversed it. The needle had plunged into Helen’s neck, sending a squirt of blood onto Garin’s cheek.

Helen was momentarily stunned. The syringe hung limply from her neck as she stumbled backward, pulling at it. The drug was weakening her as her eyes dilated and her body struggled to resist the poison. She collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping repeatedly. Her effort to breathe ended, and she lay on the ground, her legs bent at a terrible angle, her hands still clutching her throat. Her eyes were wide and fixed.

“That could have been you.” Garin turned to his defender—Natalya—who stood a short distance away. Her hair was unkempt from the struggle, her hat thrown to the ground, her jacket torn, and she had a scratch on her cheek. She removed the syringe from Helen’s neck and wiped away blood from the puncture wound, erasing evidence of the needle’s entry. She arranged the fallen woman so her hands were at her side, not at her throat, and she faced Garin.

“We have to leave. KGB are on their way. I heard the radio transmissions.” Natalya searched Helen’s pockets and tossed the car keys at Garin. “Take these.”

“What are you doing?”

“She has to be moved.”

He stood over the dead woman. Think. “You’re crazy.”

She took the legs and motioned for him to take the shoulders. “It stopped her heart. When she’s found, it will appear to be a heart attack. A new KGB tool.” She looked at him. “She is Second Chief Directorate.”

Garin finished getting the body in Helen’s car, and he sat behind the wheel, working the unfamiliar ignition. He heard a hissed pop, like a soda can being opened, followed by a startled cry. The prostitute stood in shadow just beyond the apartment lobby’s light. Her arms were extended, her feet planted, and she sighted along the barrel of a silenced pistol. A second pop went off, accompanied by a dim muzzle flash. Garin saw Natalya on her knees, keeping behind the cover of a parked car. He was suddenly alert. It crossed his mind to leave the scene of the murder, but he knew that was a bad choice. He took his Colt from his belt and quietly slipped out of the car, dropping to one knee in a crouch by the front wheel. His first shot dropped the girl. He had aimed at the chest, and the bullet entered the pale skin above her low-cut blouse, sending her violently backward.

He went to the fallen girl. So young. Dead. He didn’t linger on the sight. He knew that even a brief glance would haunt him. He found it hard to expunge the faces of his dead.

“She is KGB,” Natalya said breathlessly. Her eyes darted, looking for more danger.

“She was going to kill you,” he said.

“Was it easy for you?”

“It’s never easy,” he said.

Apartment lights above them had gone on one by one, and one curious resident had thrown open her window and stared at the dark street.

“We have no time,” Natalya said. “Get in her car. Follow me. Police will arrive soon.”

Garin drove behind Natalya through the narrow, twisting streets of central Moscow for fifteen minutes and pulled up behind her when she suddenly stopped in front of an apartment block. He opened his window for Natalya when she approached.

“Put her behind the steering wheel.”

Garin did as instructed. They lifted the corpse into the driver’s seat, placing the head so it slumped forward. Garin managed to jam Helen’s booted foot on the accelerator, and they watched as the car lurched forward, jumping the curb and hitting a tree. The hood popped, the engine continued to run, and steam drifted up from a burst radiator.

Garin joined Natalya in her car. “She lives nearby,” Natalya said. “She will be found shortly. It is in everyone’s interest to keep this quiet.” She turned to him. “The prostitute saw everything. They know who you are. You will be linked to the prostitute’s death, sought for questioning, interrogated, and expelled. Or shot.”

She pumped the gas pedal twice, struggling to start the Lada, and then, on the third try, the engine turned over. She looked behind and around and confirmed there was no witness. She saw Garin staring. “What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You are no help to me dead or expelled.” She glared. “I want to defect.”

They drove in silence for several minutes, but then she pulled to the side of the street, breathing hard. She looked straight ahead in a great effort to avoid meeting his eyes. A great gulf opened between them. He could feel it, and he knew she did, too. A line crossed. “Surprise” was not a big enough word to describe his understanding of what they’d done. He would do anything, give up anything, to be free of the consequences that had begun to settle in like an approaching storm.

Natalya started laughing, horrible, nervous laughter, full of fear. When she quieted, she turned to Garin, her eyes defiant and contemptuous. “You don’t know me. You only know what I’ve allowed you to see.” She took a deep breath and said, “This is something that I’ve planned for a long time.”

Her body began to tremble. Garin touched her cheek. It was burning.