Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Kiril shrugged. “How do friends spend their time?”

His thoughts turned to the countless hours they had spent learning German. Of how Kiril had shared his expertise in American slang. His knowledge of the American Constitution , limited government, individual rights.

“Why did Brodsky join the Soviet Air Force?” the older man asked.

“He never told me.”

But he had. To steal a plane someday so he could defect.

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” smooth-face snapped.

“Don’t feel rushed, Doctor,” the older man told him. “Just try to be more specific about how you and Stepan Brodsky spent your time.”

The pressure that had been building dissipated like air being let out of a tire. Kiril related a half-dozen activities, all of them innocuous. Sports. Cinema. Occasional double-dating. A rare hiking trip.

Even as he remembered how he and Stepan had studied plan after plan in an ongoing effort to get out of prison, as they thought of it. Stepan haunted diplomatic gatherings where his credentials might land him invitations to other countries. Kiril, for the same reason, explored medical exchange programs. Both of them pored over maps of East Berlin and East Germany to prepare themselves should the opportunity ever arise to defect from either place.

Smooth-face picked up the questioning. “I presume you and Brodsky are acquainted with the same people? You have the same friends?”

“I have very few friends—”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the demands of my work. As for Captain Brodsky’s friends, I assume he has some but I’ve no idea who they are. We do know several people jointly, of course.”

Smooth-face folded his arms. “How long have you known Brodsky was a traitor?”

Kiril shot to his feet. “What the hell are you talking about? Captain Brodsky a traitor?”

Something did go wrong in Potsdam! Was Stepan tortured? Do they have the lighter? The microfilm?

“I’m leaving,” he announced, gathering his courage. Knowing damn well it was Aleksei who’d probably set up this interrogation in the first place. “If you care to pursue this outrageous slander,” he said, “I suggest you take it up with my brother.”

“Please resume your seat, Dr. Andreyev,” said the older man, directing an icy glance at his impetuous young colleague. One never knew how Dr. Kiril Andreyev stood with KGB Colonel Aleksei Andreyev, he thought. The sensible thing was to tread carefully, not come on like a—a battering ram! “Did you, in fact, know that Stepan Brodsky was planning to escape?”

In the small stretch of silence that followed, both interrogators leaned forward in their chairs. Dr. Andreyev—up to now imperturbable—looked stunned.

“I didn’t know it,” Kiril said slowly, his mind an agony of questions.

Where was Stepan? Had he abandoned his plan? Do they know about me?

Smooth-face wasn’t about to be distracted. “We have proof that you met with Captain Brodsky shortly before he went to Potsdam. Do you really expect us to believe he revealed nothing about his escape attempt?”

“Nothing, I told you. What’s going on? Is Stepan all right?”

“Not exactly.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Captain Brodsky was shot dead trying to escape across Glienicker Bridge,” the older man said calmly. “We have no more questions, Dr. Andreyev. Thank you for your cooperation. You will remain here please.”

The two men left the room.

Kiril sat down, his legs too weak to hold him upright. He felt numb. The numbness rose slowly, inexorably, up the length of his body until his shoulders slumped as if from the sheer weight of it.

Why should I fight it any longer, Stepan? I am as dead as you are.

But even now, Stepan reached out to him.

Kiril pictured a favorite haunt he and Stepan had christened the “Western Bar.” They had enjoyed nursing a couple of beers as they watched shaggy-haired kids in faded jeans and miniskirts lose themselves in a defiant attempt at gaiety. Then when they were ready to leave, they would raise a glass in a solemn toast that had become a ritual.

Say it , he told himself. Say it now before it’s too late!

“To the United States of America,” he whispered in the solemn tone of a vow, and a farewell.

He was still weeping as he clung to the image of the Western Bar when a figure in a soiled military tunic yanked him up by one arm and said, “You come with me.”

Aleksei Andreyev had unruly hair—more yellow than blond—eyes as pale blue as a robin’s egg, and an unsettling expression. Unsettling because it simultaneously suggested placidity and a readiness to pounce.

“Kiril!” he said heartily by way of greeting as his brother was hauled into his office. “You look distressed.”

“Distressed?” Kiril said wearily, making no effort to hide his utter devastation. “Your thugs tell me my closest friend is a traitor. That Stepan tried to defect so they shot him to death. How the hell do you expect me to feel? What do you want with me, Aleksei?”

“I might ask you the same question. Sit down.” Aleksei indicated one of the chairs opposite his spacious desk. “Why did you come to my office a few weeks ago?”

“Don’t be coy. You know why.” Kiril dropped into the chair. He could barely stand. “I wanted your help getting permission for Dr.Yanin’s operating team to participate in that Canadian medical meeting.”

“Of course you did. So you could go to Canada with them, Kiril? And then what?” he said patiently. “Defect like your friend just tried to do?”

“Think what you like,” Kiril said indifferently.

“Has it occurred to you that, precisely because of your undistinguished career all these years, you haven’t been cleared to make such trips? After all your childhood pretensions—that burning desire to be a doctor—I thought you’d amount to much more. I know about the harsh years when work was scarce. What you did manage to get were—how shall I put it?—menial jobs. Putting up intravenous drips for other doctors. Handing them instruments. Operating their machines like a mechanic.”

Aleksei’s eyes probed Kiril’s face for a reaction. Not finding it, he leaned back in his chair. “Then along came your big break,” he continued, the annoyance in his voice clashing with his placid expression. “You become a ‘glorified mechanic’ for the eminent Dr. Mikhail Yanin.”

Eminent enough to be invited and re-invited to the West , Kiril thought. Aloud he said, “It didn’t take long for this ‘glorified mechanic’ to make himself indispensable to the best surgeon in Moscow.”

“True. Still, I managed to overcome our tarnished family history. Forgive me for being immodest but even if Aunt Sofia hadn’t taken me under her wing, nothing would have barred my way,” Aleksei said smugly. “If there’s anything the woman ingrained in me, it was how to be resourceful. I learned how to ferret out one’s enemies. How to distinguish between a man’s strengths and his weaknesses. I seem to recall your early interest in medical research. Did you know that’s how I started?”

“In research?” Kiril said, incredulous.

“Of a special kind. Ever heard of the Index, Little Brother?”

Kiril had heard of it, all right. A staggering collection of biographical information, infinite in scope and indiscriminate in content. Anyone of even remote interest to the KGB was targeted.

“Aunt Sofia grasped right from the start that the Index was a perfect fit for my special talents. Over the years, I’ve made myself useful to a great many influential people,” Aleksei said with a faint smile of reminiscence.