Authors: Jared Paul
“
Ostanovit
!”
He waved for them to cease fire. Ivan obeyed immediately.
Yakov fired one more round into the river then followed suit. Roman smacked the simpleton Yakov on the back of the head and rattled off a series of insults in French, which Yakov did not understand, calling it a tongue for effete, decadent snobs. When he was through berating Yakov
Roman tip-toed up to the very edge of the water, then peaked over the embankment. When he saw what he believed to be blood wafting up to the surface he was satisfied. Roman barked for the others to get back into the Volvo and they left in a hurry before the police could arrive.
…
Vladimir Shirokov flipped to the next page in the heavy hardcover volume resting in his lap. He adjusted his reading glasses so they rested further down his nose, a wide beak that drew comparisons to vultures by those foolish enough to utter them. He read fast, absently puffing at the cigar hanging precariously from his bottom lip. By some miracle of physics it stayed in place, as if it feared Shirokov’s willpower more than any penalty that disobeying the laws of gravity might invite.
The coffee shop he owned on 14
th
street had closed an hour earlier, and Shirokov was enjoying his daily down time by reading in the back office by himself. A recording of Dmitri Shostakovich’s ninth symphony emanated from a pair of speakers outfitted on the wall. A tumbler of iced vodka was sweating on the table next to his ash tray. Intermittently Shirokov reached out for the glass and drank. Sometimes he chuckled at inside jokes known only to the author and himself. The more he drank, the more he chuckled.
The previous Friday he had discovered this volume at the Tompkins Square Branch of the library. It was called Europe Central,
a novel written by William T. Vollmann. The book was fictional, which was something that Shirokov ordinarily did not go in for. Although he secretly pined for stories set in faraway lands with dragons and sorcery, Shirokov believed he had gotten too old for such things and now preferred to dwell in the realm of the possible. Besides, history was usually far weirder in his experience. Every now and then though, Shirokov allowed himself a treat from the literature section. He reasoned that since Europe Central was heavily researched and based on actual events in the twentieth century, it did not count as cheating. Plus it had won the National Book Award, which had to count for something towards serious reading.
Shirokov
was craving another mouthful of clear, restorative vodka but he delayed the pleasure until he reached the end of page 472. When he reached his goal Shirokov went for the drink only to find it empty. He cleared his throat and called for the barista.
“
Nadiya!”
The
pale, plain-faced, buxom girl appeared and asked what he needed, and when he answered vodka she disappeared just as quickly. For a moment Shirokov was tempted to jump right back into reading but he decided to take a break and collect his thoughts. Sliding a bookmark between pages 473 and 474, he closed the book and laid it on the table.
Just outside the door to his office
Shirokov knew that his bodyguard Vitaly was standing watch. He could hear him mouth breathing, in any case.
“
Vitaly. Come in here.”
Waddling in, the sweatpants clad
Vitaly barely fit through the doorway.
“Yes
Avtorityet?”
“Sit down.
Are you a reading man, Vitaly?”
Shirokov
gestured towards the thick book, wrapped in protective plastic by the library. The hefty bodyguard paused and thought about it, as if worried it might be a trick question. Finally he shook his head no.
“This i
s about the Great Patriotic War, and other things, but mostly the war. Do you know how we came to beat the Germans?
“No.”
“We had every reason to lose. Pathetic really. At the start of it some of our regiments were still on horseback, meeting German panzers in the snow with bayonets. Heh. Can you imagine?”
Vitaly
shrugged and admitted that he could not.
“They had every advantage. The German army was the most sophisticated and well trained fighting force on the continent. They were disciplined. They had belief in what they were doing. They were better supplied, their generals were for more knowledgeable,
and their weapons advanced beyond our comprehension. When Hitler betrayed us and attacked, Stalin did not believe it for days. Not until he saw the destruction with his own eyes. He had several men executed for lying when they told him even. Anyway. They pushed the Red Army back and back, wiped out our villages, killed our children, raped our women, there was almost no resistance. Pathetic.”
Shirokov
stopped his telling of the story when Nadiya returned with a fresh glass of vodka. He offered a taste to Vitaly who knew enough to refuse. Shirokov took a drink and resumed.
“So how did we win? What d
efeated the almighty German war machine in the end? Heh. The stupidity of it. There were simply too many of us. We died and we died and we died. By the millions we died; died of the cold, died of disease, died of starvation, died from Germans, died from being shot for desertion. Any normal, sane country would have surrendered. That was the genius of Stalin. He did not care how many Russians died. Even to the last man, the last child. And so no matter how many the Germans killed, there were always more. We offered up so much human meat to be ground up that we broke the machine, we stuffed the Germans and suffocated them with the stench of our own death. That is how it was won. Not because we were smarter or tougher or had better generals. We won because the Germans ran out of bullets to kill us with. We had a greater capacity for suffering. Let that be a lesson. Anything can be done. It is only a question of time and manpower. There are always more Russians to die. Understood?”
Vitaly
replied thoughtfully that he did understand then Shirokov dismissed him back to his post. He read for another fifteen minutes then he was interrupted by Nadiya knocking at the door.
“Roman
Dorokhin is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Three men, led by Roman were ushered into Shirokov’s private office. Vitaly crowded in behind them, blocking the doorway. Shirokov did not invite any of them to sit. The other two low level men had names, he was sure, but he had forgotten them, a trivial detail. There were always more Russians. Roman Dorokhin was one of Shirokov’s more accomplished, competent operatives. He dressed and conducted himself professionally and so had earned the right to a name. Vladimir offered his right hand, the pinky decorated by a blinding sapphire ring.
Bowing low, Roman took
Shirokov’s hand in his own and kissed the eight-pointed star tattooed just below the knuckles.
“
Avtorityet.”
He whispered reverentially.
“You have news?”
“Da. We have killed the man, this husband of the activist woman who attacked Anton. They killed Boris and Sergei on the bridge, but we got them.”
“
Otlichno
, good. Show me.”
Roman
Dorokhin stammered and looked to his anonymous comrades for help. The two of them busied themselves by examining the laces on their running sneakers, or the fascinating carpentry on the floor. Finally Roman came out with it.
“They were drowned. They drowned in the river. We drove them off and then shot them in the water.”
Curiosity stimulated, Shirokov raised his eyebrows at his underling.
“They?”
“There was a police woman. She picked him up from station and drove him.”
“And this police woman was drowned and shot as well?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Good work, Roman. Show me the bodies.”
“I…”
For several minutes Roman
Dorokhin made a spectacle of himself, spittle flying as he supplicated himself before his boss, apologizing, trying his best to explain that there was no time to exhume them from the water as the NYPD was converging on the location, but he was certain that they were dead, he had seen their blood floating up to the surface, there was no way a human could have survived. When he was finished Roman was out of breath and tears were starting to form in his eyes.
Shirokov
laughed and stubbed out the last of his cigar in the ash tray. He rose from his seat and embraced Roman, kissing him on either cheek. The stubble felt almost as coarse as sandpaper.
“
Oof! Your beard Roman. You must find a shave. Relax. You must relax. Are you a reading man?”
Perplexed by the question, Roman swallowed and answered that he was not.
Shirokov picked up Europe Central from the table and showed it to him.
“
Ack. You should read more. This is a great book. I was just telling Vitaly about it…”
The enormous bulk of the bodyguard was wedged between the three men and the door. Inside the tight little office the air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and sweat.
“…you must relax Roman. We will find them, this man and the police woman. We will. And if they are still alive, that is easily remedied. It is only a question of time and manpower. After all, there are always more Russians. Isn’t that right, Vitaly?”
Shirokov
nodded to Vitaly, who drew a .22 from somewhere within his folds of fat, pointed it at Roman’s temple and pulled the trigger. Splattered with blood, Shirokov addressed one of the other two men, whose body quivered visibly.
“
Find them.”
Jordan Ross held on to Detective Leslie
Bollier’s hand throughout the whole ordeal. As the Taurus sank and flooded with the freezing water of the East River, Jordan pushed his door open and pulled Bollier out of the vehicle, then kicked his legs, swimming for the cover of a nearby pier as if his life depended on it. (It did.)
They surfaced together, gasping for air just as a clatter of heavy caliber gunfire erupted, heads bobbing like buoys just beneath the pier. Without the cover of the gunshots the Russians would have almost certainly heard them
break the surface and suck in oxygen fast and desperately. Bollier was trying to keep afloat while holding one hand to the gash on her cheek, which was bleeding in serious earnest now. Jordan kept one arm wrapped around her waist and held them up by grabbing hold of a rusted spike dangling under the pier. The detective was losing so much blood Jordan began to worry that the temperature of the water could put her into hypothermic shock. As she shook uncontrollably in the water, he whispered for her to keep quiet.
“I need you to hang on Detective. If we come up now they’ll see us. Just hang on a little while lon
ger for me. Ok? Can you do that?”
Somehow Bollier managed to nod her head through all the full body shaking. Finally when they heard the sound of police sirens, Jordan caught his breath for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He swam out from under the pier and helped sling Bollier onto the dock, then he climbed up himself and started waving his arms.
“Over here! Hey!”
A pair of NYPD officers had just emerged from their squad car. Two more cruisers were in pursuit of the Russians’ SUVs. They ran over to Jordan, feet pounding on the docks and bouncing the wood with each stride.
“What happened?”
“They were shooting at us and our car got thrown into the river. She’s one of yours.”
The officer on the right bent over Bollier and shined a flashlight into her eyes. His partner dug into the detective’s pocket and found her official badge.
“She doesn’t look good. She’s got to get dry right away. Come hop in the back with her and we’ll take you over to the 84
th
precinct.”
The officer who drove them was no match for Bollier at the wheel, but he at least showed enough urgency to blow right through several stop signs and red lights. Jordan averted his eyes while the detective shed her clothes and wrapped herself in a heavy blanket the Brooklyn beat cops kept in the back of their squad car. When she was covered up again Jordan held her tight so she could keep a hand on her cheek. While they were en route Bollier tried to lighten up, even though she was fighting hypothermia.
“Well Mr. Ross. There’s one good thing that comes out of all this.”
“What’s that?”
“Now at least we know who bailed you out.”
Jordan snorted a laugh and shook his head.
At the 84
th
precinct the detective and Jordan were greeted like conquering heroes at first. The precinct commander, one Captain Branden led a gratuitous round of applause and shook Jordan’s hand so hard he wondered if any bones were broken in the process. Bollier’s hair was still wet and she was shivering too much to sit still, so they led her back into the locker rooms and promised to debrief her only when she was ready and feeling up to it. Meanwhile, Jordan was given a blanket of his own and a steaming cup of coffee. Captain Branden showed him into a small conference room in the back of the station. Two more detectives were waiting there for him.
A rail-thin man with slick black hair and a bushy moustache introduced himself as Detective Morris Castillo. His demur partner Detective Casings, who didn’t offer his first name, looked like a former athlete gone to donuts. They both greeted Jordan warmly and thanked him for his help.
Castillo talked fast, and looked nervous like he had a coffee drip pouring directly into his veins.
“You really did a knockout job. We can’t thank you enough. Without our special little Leslie God only knows what we would do.”
Casings said thanks. The Captain offered Jordan a chair and he sat down, trying to fight down the adrenaline still rushing through his system. They asked him to go through what had happened exactly, from the moment Bollier picked him up from jail in Manhattan. He went through it in as much detail as he could remember. Jordan reviewed his conversation with Bollier about his wife’s field work, the collision on the bridge, the sun setting in his eyes, the shootout, to the pier, all of it.
Half way through his story Captain Branden got a page and excused himself to go take a call. Jordan finished up for the two detectives, who stared at him in reverential awe. Castillo stroked at his moustache.
“Holy shit man. That’s incredible. You’re like a regular Rambo. Where did you learn to do all that?”
Jordan Ross gave them a brief review of his career in the armed forces.
“I made Special Forces back in 89, just barely past 19 years old. I served twenty years. Wound some things up in St. Petersburg right after the Berlin wall came down. Saw some hairy action in the Gulf, both times around. Somalia, Kosovo. How’s that old Lucky Starr song go? I’ve been everywhere, man.”
Detectives Casings and Castillo laughed their heads off at that one. When he was through filling in some details in his service record
, Castillo’s eyes glazed over. Jordan felt an uneasy sensation settling into his stomach that he could not explain. Castillo nodded several times and stood up.
“Well. I guess that you’ll want to be on your way. Thanks again for saving Leslie, really. We can’t thank you enough. You’re a real American hero.”
Jordan never liked the feeling of smoke being blown up his ass.
“That’s it then? I’m free to go?” Very quick the two detectives exchanged a look and then they both shrugged. “…no official statement for the record? No real debriefing or anything?”
Castillo snickered.
“Well there’s some paperwork for sure. But now hardly seems like the time for it. Bollier can help fill us in for tonight. You can come in any time next week to get it taken
care of and we’ll all take you out for a beer. How’s that sound?”
Jordan pursed his lips and said that it sounded perfectly delightful. He shook Castillo’s hand and looked deep into his brown, golden flecked irises. The quiet detective Casings showed him the way out of the precinct and gave him money for a cab ride home.
…
Hair dried,
shaking finally under control, bleeding all bandaged up, and wearing a new fresh dry pair of slacks and a business blouse, Detective Bollier emerged from the women’s locker room and went looking for Captain Branden. Castillo found her first and smiled through his walrus moustache.
“
Heeeeey, Leslie. How’s it goin? Man we were worried about you.”
Castillo gave her an amiable hug.
Bollier did an admirable job of hiding the squirming feeling crawling up her spine. Castillo had hounded her for a date for weeks when she first arrived at the precinct, and even though he eventually backed off when she told him she preferred seafood to sausage, he still gave her the creeps. She patted him awkwardly on the back.
“Yeah. Thanks. I’m fine. I’m looking for the Captain.”
“Oh he had to go home, personal business or something.”
“Alright. Where’s Ross? I have to go over some stuff with him.”
“Ross? Oh the Rambo guy. Heh. Yeah we sent him on his way already.”
Bollier had been steadily hiking up the hallway,
but she stopped at that and stared uncomprehending at Castillo, her jaw nearly dragging on the floor.
“You did what?!”
“Hey, I figured this guy’s a hero and he’s had a really long day already. Why not just let him go home and have a shower? He can always come back later and take care of…”
“Let me get this straight you inconceivable fucking idiot.... This guy just got attacked in broad daylight by a
Russian hit squad while riding in a car with an NYPD detective. He needs to be in protective custody. You let him walk out the front door?”
Castillo started to protest but he caught himself and muttered whatever and walked away. Bollier sprinted back down to the locker room, strapped on a new shoulder holster, and prayed that she wouldn’t be too late.
…
Something had been nagging Jordan in the back of his mind but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
As the taxi cab rolled to a stop a half a block away from his home, he replayed the events of the day in his head, trying to make sense of it. There was a piece that he had missed somewhere. Everything that had transpired since the accident rattled around in his head like an assortment of marbles in a machine wash cycle.
“You alright sir?”
The Punjabi looking cab driver had been waiting patiently for five minutes while Jordan was brainstorming.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. How much?”
Jordan paid the driver and walked steadily up the sidewalk. The moon was half visible through a tangle of clouds moving east towards the Atlantic in a hurry. At his front door Jordan stood still with his back to the street, keys jingling in hand. After an interminable pause he shook his head and went in.
Flipping the living room light switch on, Jordan tossed his keys into a basket he kept on the piano bench. He sighed and removed his jacket, freeing both sleeves at the same time in a jerky motion. He let the jacket slide to the floor, an unpardonable sin when Sarah had her run of the house. Slowly Jordan made his way into the kitchen where he poured himself a double
Glenlivet on the rocks. He sipped at the glass and wandered through the empty rooms trying to decide what to do with the rest of his evening. Common sense said he should call it a day, but his mind was racing from all the action and the coffee the detectives at the precinct had offered him. He should have said no, it was too late in the day.
The detectives at the precinct weren’t like Bollier. Maybe it was an accumulated tension turning into paranoia, but Jordan felt like Castillo had hidden something away in that absurd moustache of his.
The detectives. Something was there.
Jordan strode back into the living room, savoring his scotch slowly. He paused at the window facing the quiet terrace. Then it came to him.
How did the detectives know that Bollier had picked him up in Manhattan?
The realization came on in a sudden panic but Jordan forced his movements to stay slow. His eyes still focused out on the dimly lit street, Jordan blindly reached for the light switch and turned it off.
He knew the layout of the house without having to navigate with any light. Without the glare from the inside Jordan could see clearly out onto the street. Standing there, he waited patiently for several minutes, taking short sips of scotch and slowly feeling the tension in his muscles relax.
An ambush was a nerve wracking proposition. That’s part of what had made Fallujah so difficult for so many guys. On an open battlefield, when you saw the enemy coming, there was some natural fear. But the terrorists could strike anywhere at any time. That was their only advantage. A
conventional army would wipe out a terrorist cell in a matter of minutes, but they would not meet you out in the open. The constant tension of never knowing when an attack was coming wore down on you over time. Psychological warfare was where the Islamists excelled. The Pentagon could learn a thing or two from the way they fought, and Jordan was certain that they were learning all the time.
These Russians were dramatically different, almost a 180 degree departure in tactics. There was no subtlety, no sneaking around and waiting for a choice opportunity to strike. No creeping doubts, no sleepless nights. They simply kept coming and coming and coming. Jordan admired their persistence and boldness. Even travelling in a cop
car, on the Williamsburg Bridge with the entire evening rush hour crowd watching, they hit. Having an enemy to face suddenly felt good, something to look forward to, somewhere else he could direct all his inwardly turned rage. Jordan felt goose bumps popping out all over his skin. He could not wait to get started. Jordan drained the last of the scotch down his throat and got to work.
Moving in the dark, Jordan’s steps were careful but confident. Upstairs in the bedroom he changed into a black sweater and pair of jeans. In the closet he found a pair of black leather gloves and squeezed his hands into them. Just for the hell of it Jordan would have donned black face paint but that would have been theatrical, over the top. When you got cute on a night mission things invariably went wrong.
Once he was dressed Jordan arranged the pillows under the sheets and duvet to look like someone was sleeping there, curled up on their side. He had only seen it done in the movies and he honestly wondered if it would work. At the very least maybe they would waste a few rounds turning the bedroom into a snowstorm of feathers.
Jordan crept down the stairs quietly, practicing his assassin’s silent footwork. It had been years since his last stealth mission after dark, and the familiar queasy thrills were rushing through him. Jordan almost skipped down the basement stairs, whistling the tune to Mission Impossible. He kept a duffel bag filled with his old equipment in a
locker next to the water heater. With a flashlight clenched in his teeth, he swung the combination lock left 19, right 42, left 19 again and it clicked open. The stale locker smelled like mold. Jordan coughed and dragged the duffel bag out, surprised by the weight. He set it down on his woodshop bench and unzipped the bag. Jordan spread his lips into a grin and wondered how demented he must look with the flashlight in his teeth like that.