Paul Vidich - The Mercenary

Natalya stepped forward. “Now hit me.”

He was appalled.

“Do you want me to be tortured for being your accomplice? They won’t be as kind as you. Hit me,” she snapped. “You’re an idiot. Do it.”

Garin was startled and numb, but he summoned courage. He stared at her pleading eyes—earnest and angry and ready. He fought against his horror. When he opened his eyes, he looked away, but his pistol struck her jaw. Her face contorted in pain, and her scream resounded in the small room. Blood gushed from an obscene gash on her lower lip and sullied her uniform. More blood came from her broken nose. She fell to the floor beside the guard, drawn into a fetal position to protect against the next blow.

Outside on the street, a light rain had begun to fall, and somewhere there was the sound of briskly marching soldiers following their commanding officer’s tyrannical bark.

Garin looked down at Natalya with pity and regret. Her pain was real; the blood was real; the loud cries for help were real; all that was false was her outrage.

Garin stepped from the room and looked both ways down the empty passageway. He walked in the direction that he knew would take him to the street.

BELORUSSKY STATION WAS THE PERFECT place to vanish. A main highway to the south started nearby, and there were always cars outside waiting to pick up or drop off relatives or friends. There was also an underpass from the street to the metro station, and a man could easily be anonymous in the crowd that moved to the train platforms. Northbound trains went to other principal stations in Moscow and ultimately to Leningrad and the Finnish border. Southbound trains traveled past towns dotting the countryside outside Moscow and then continued their long overnight journey to Uzhgorod.

Garin waited by a pillar, away from passengers pushing forward to board the train. He was chilly without an overcoat, but the Soviet Army uniform gave him the comfort of knowing he wasn’t of interest to the trio of militiamen who scanned the crowd for deserters. Twice strangers had seen the Order of the Red Banner on his chest and smiled, and he’d looked back indifferently. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. Spring had arrived on the calendar, but temperatures fell sharply at night.

When he heard the clanging bell announce the train’s departure, he stepped forward and took three steps into the carriage. He didn’t look left or right. No innocent man needed to survey the platform to see if he’d been spotted. Then he was inside the train.

Almost immediately, the carriage shuddered and lurched forward, and the train picked up speed and settled into a comfortable rhythm. Garin headed toward the first-class compartment in the front of the train, moving down the aisle packed with travelers arranging their baggage in overhead compartments, who moved aside when he begged to pass, and in this way Garin arrived at the end of the car. He was stopped by a conductor who demanded his ticket. “You’re in back. Third class.”

Garin turned around, politely obliging the conductor, looking grateful for the direction, but once the conductor had passed through the carriage, Garin proceeded to the front of the train and Compartment 12. Garin moved his hands from one seat back to the next to steady himself, and twice he inadvertently touched a passenger. Each time the person’s indignant expression vanished when he saw the red-and-gold pinned medal. No one seemed to care that he hadn’t shaved in several days; no one noticed his insurgent stubble with wisps of gray, and no one recoiled at the swollen lip or his rank odor. He was a war hero returned from the front. He accepted the respect and let passengers think what they wanted. If asked, he had already decided that he would say he was on home leave and fuck off if he was unshaven and smelled.

He ignored family groups who settled into their seats for the thirty-two-hour journey, undoing twine from small boxes of bread, sausage, cured meats, and dried apricots, laughing or complaining in loud voices. His eyes picked out single men or a man with a male companion. KGB operated in teams of two on trains to the border. Sometimes the men were together, and sometimes they split up. Undercover teams rode most of the trains, and they remained unseen unless something came to their attention.

Garin moved slowly, lurching from one seat back to the next, apologizing to a passenger if he needed to but always keeping an eye out. His escape had surely been reported by now and an alarm raised.

He spotted Petrov in the second of the two first-class carriages, sitting in Compartment 12 with his family. They acknowledged each other, and Garin continued along the aisle until he reached the end of the car, where he lit a cigarette. Petrov joined him, and the two took a smoke together.

“So, you made it,” Petrov said.

They faced each other across the swaying, shuddering platform between carriages, which was open to the rails underneath. The rhythmic rumble of the train’s wheels rolling along the railbed reverberated loudly in the narrow space. No one was there to hear them, and they spoke loudly to be heard.

“What about Posner?”

“He’s out of the way.”

“ Mudak! ” Petrov spat.

Garin nodded at the compartment. “Any problems?”

“She’s okay. My rowboat will have been found overturned, and right now her parents will be fretting the possibility that we’ve drowned. You look official,” he said, nodding at the uniform. “Some medal. You could be shot if you’re caught wearing that.”

Garin nodded but did not smile. He confirmed the details of the plan, which he’d previously laid out. Repetition saved even the best plan from failure. Garin described the plan and then he did it a third time, demanding that Petrov repeat each step. The car would be waiting for them two blocks from the train station. The car’s hidden compartment, Petrov’s invitation to a sporting competition in Prague, the track suits he and Olga would be wearing. The smuggler’s name. There would be a team of Americans waiting on the other side of the frontier. He would carry his film inside the lining of his leather jacket.

Garin looked directly at Petrov. “A woman might join us.”

Petrov’s eyes flared. “You never mentioned a woman. Who is she? Does she know who I am?”

“If she boards, she’ll get on at the next station. She will be no trouble.”

“If she boards?”

“We’ll see.”

Petrov wasn’t happy.

GARIN JOINED PETROV, Olga, and the boy, Aleksey, in their first-class compartment, taking the fourth ticket.

Olga looked at him with nervous trepidation, which she masked with an awkward smile, and he responded with a pleasant nod. He wondered how much Petrov had told her and how much he had lied. Garin smiled to reassure her and make her feel at ease, and he looked at the boy, openly admiring a plush doll he held.

“He’ll get a sedative when we get close to Uzhgorod,” Olga said. She turned to her son. “Remember what I told you. When we get near the end we’ll give you something to help you sleep.” She leaned over to her son. “Darling, do you remember the game we’re playing?”

“Yes, Mama, we’re pretending that I’m a girl and my name is Nata. But how will anyone think I am a girl? I am a boy. Can’t they see that?”

“Of course you’re a boy,” she said.

“Oh, so you’re a boy,” Garin said, playing along. “I couldn’t tell. I will keep your secret.”

“See?” Olga said. “You are playing the game well. Let’s see how many people we can fool. You have a doll, a girl’s name, and a girl’s hat. You’ve already fooled this soldier, and he isn’t easily fooled. Do you see his medal? He’s a hero.”