Paul Vidich - The Mercenary

Garin and Natalya woke reluctantly late that Saturday, and it seemed to them that they awoke at the same time from dreamy sleep, due to the same shrill sound outside. For reasons they could not explain, they were sharing feelings. A mosquito buzzed one and then the other, and they both covered their heads with a pillow.

The next morning, Sunday, it was the urgent siren of a passing ambulance that brought them out of bed. She threw open the shutters, letting in blinding sunlight, and went to the bathroom without shutting the door. Still absorbed in a pleasant dream, he rolled over to hold on to the fleeing thought.

When Garin woke, he knew it was late. He lifted his arm and looked at his wristwatch. Noon! How could that be? Then he realized that the street outside was quiet and Natalya was not in the bathroom. He jumped from the bed and walked barefoot to the kitchen, shoving his arms into his shirt sleeves.

“Natalya?”

No answer. He looked in the bathroom, the other bathroom, and then down the circular stairwell. “Natalya?” He felt an emptiness to the apartment when he was back inside. Her coat was missing. Her purse was not where she usually placed it, and there was an envelope taped to the vestibule door where she knew he would see it. He stared at his name, which she’d written in her precise script. He tore it open.

You were sleeping , the note read. I decided not to wake you. I left the morning paper. Be careful today. Dinner is at 20:00. If the telephone rings, don’t answer it. Two rings followed after a long pause by two more rings means danger. Get out of the flat as fast as possible. Love, Nata.

He folded the note and placed it back in the envelope. He sat as the table and looked at the envelope for a long while. He felt an odd sense of relief.

He poured himself a glass of vodka, swirling the liquid in the afternoon light. Pouring a drink was an unconscious act, his mind thinking that it would settle his nerves. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and he was a little disoriented by his feelings. Without drinking, he pushed the vodka out of reach. He shook his head. The idea that she cared for him. He hated the word “love,” which had only brought him great disappointment. He gazed out the window, thinking that her tender feelings would complicate things.

MUELLER LEARNED WHAT HAPPENED NEXT not from Garin but from his diary, when he reconstructed the events in Moscow and discovered, to his surprise, that Garin was careful, but not in the way that Mueller expected. His dated entries were recklessly contrived summaries of conversations and contained sensitive details that could jeopardize the CIA’s efforts, but other entries were the opposite. Facts and opinions were shaded to mislead the casual reader and to provide a smooth wall of deception, hiding the real cracks in the plan. The diary was a serious breach of security protocol, or it was a self-consciously created record to defend his loyalty before a Soviet inquisition. Unfortunately for Mueller—and there would always be moments in his life when he bitterly regretted it—he never got to ask Garin.

GARIN WAS TWO blocks from Natalya’s street when he saw a black Volga in front of her building, and in the same moment he heard his name called. He had made a quick trip to the tobacco kiosk outside Novokuznetskaya Metro Station, where he had seen three vertical chalk marks on the postal box—Petrov’s signal that he had convinced his wife to proceed. The street was filled with Afghan War mothers who’d lost sons marching with locked arms, yelling fierce slogans. Dozens of tightly bunched Afgansty followed with an unfurled banner: For Our Freedom and Yours .

Upon hearing his name, Garin joined the motley humanity of loud protesters moving down the center of the boulevard, disrupting traffic. Several protesters were pulled from the group by thuggish plainclothes policemen and detained by militia who lined the boulevard. State Security was there in abundance, and military vehicles with water cannons were parked at regular intervals along the route of the march.

Garin didn’t acknowledge the man who called his name, nor could he escape the marchers surrounding him. He kept walking forward until he saw the man emerge from the assembled militia. He was dressed in a long military coat and wore a peaked cap with single red star. He was in front of Garin, blocking his path.

“Aleksander Garin?”

He nodded.

“Come with me.”

“What’s this about?”

“We have a few questions. Come this way.” He pointed to a black Volga parked nearby. “This won’t take long.”

The man opened the car’s rear door for Garin, who slipped into the back seat and found himself joining a smartly dressed KGB officer. Garin recognized the angular face and vague smile of a churlish man trying his best to be pleasant.

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Talinov. This won’t take long. Papers, please?”

Garin produced his American passport and visa. The driver had started the car, and Garin felt it pull away from the curb. He glanced back and saw protesters being violently set upon by club-wielding plainclothes police.

“Everything is in order,” Talinov said.

“What’s this about?”

“Your name has come to our attention. We have a few questions.”

“I work for the American embassy.”

“Yes, we know. An American woman from the embassy was found dead. Perhaps you knew her. Helen Walsh.”

“I met her once, maybe twice. Is this about her?”

“There is an investigation. An autopsy showed that she died of a heart attack. Her body has been released to the American embassy. But my questions aren’t about her.”

Garin turned from the scattering protesters and faced Talinov.

Talinov politely offered his hand to Garin. “Good to meet you. The KGB is a large organization with many branches. I understand that you work for us now.”

Garin raised an eyebrow.

“We paid a sum of money to a Swiss bank account. We noticed the debit from one of our restricted accounts, and we tracked it back to Comrade Posner, who we’ve questioned. He said he recruited you. You look surprised. Is that not true?”

“We had an arrangement.”

“You both agree on that.” Talinov leaned forward to the driver. “Lefortovo Annex.”

Congested traffic in central Moscow was bumper-to-bumper at the major intersections, but the Volga’s flashing lights opened lanes along their route, and the trip was made quickly. Garin held the door’s strap against the driver’s swerving ride.

“What do you do for Comrade Posner?” Talinov asked, his polite tone acquiring an interrogator’s edge. “What is worth so much money?”

“Whatever he wants. He put a value on my worth.”

“Maybe you’ve swindled him.”

Garin smiled. “Perhaps. You should ask him.”

“We are. We haven’t seen you at your apartment for several days. He said we might find you with the woman. You work in the embassy?”

Garin knew Talinov already had his answers and was playing a game. He felt himself being maneuvered. “Yes, I do. Human rights work.”

“Did you arrive in Moscow on January 5?”

“Yes.”

The Volga entered an underground garage just off the boulevard and followed a narrow tunnel to a drop-off point beyond several parked Chaika limousines. There were two guards—one uniformed KGB security guard with holstered pistol and a Red Army policeman with a Kalashnikov, who presented his weapon in brisk salute when Talinov stepped from the Volga. Talinov led Garin toward an oak door set in an old stone wall. Inside, three plainclothes policemen were waiting. They wore similar gray suits and wide ties, and they had the menacing expressions of policemen everywhere.