Ralph Peters (62 page)

Kozlov did not mind the cold. He did not even think about it. Even the misery of his teeth, gums, and jaw seemed to have declared a truce. Soon, the aircraft would arrive to take him away. To join the Americans. He was glad he was going.

He still did not like the Americans. But he was even less comfortable with Ivanov's despair. And he was ashamed. For all their faults, the Americans had behaved honorably, had done their best. And they were still willing to carry on the fight. While his side had withheld key information, while his people were even now looking for ways to undercut the American effort instead of aiding it. Perhaps it was biological, Kozlov thought. The result of all the years of deception, of lies told to one another. Perhaps deceit had been bred into the substance of Soviet man.

And the Americans had come so close. Really, there was no substance left to oppose Soviet forces on the ground. Even in their battered condition, they could begin to sweep back to the south, through Kazakhstan. And beyond. The Americans, with their wondrous machines, had done the enemy coalition irreparable harm. The correlation of ground forces had shifted remarkably.

The only problem was the new Japanese terror weapon. Still, it was unthinkable to Kozlov that his people would let a single tool deprive them not only of victory but perhaps of their national independence. What had happened at Orsk? A terrible thing. Gruesome. But it was nothing compared to the sufferings of the Great Patriotic War. What had happened to the Russian character? To the spirit of sacrifice?

Kozlov refused to feel beaten.

The reserves of strength he found in himself surprised him a little. He had always considered himself a top-notch
staff officer—but he had never cast himself in the role of a particularly brave man. Often he had been afraid to speak up in front of his superiors—even when he knew them to be dangerously wrong.

It was time to make up for those errors now.

He did not know what he would do. But, if the Americans had not yet given up hope, then he saw no reason why he should be the first to quit.

The Americans. They were simply impossible to like. He remembered when he had been a cadet in Moscow during the long twilight of the nineteen nineties. His girl of the moment had been obsessed with paying a visit to the McDonald's restaurant that had opened on Pushkin Square. He had resisted the idea, out of the sort of self-righteous patriotism only a cadet could feel—and because the prices were painfully high on his allowance. But the girl had been pretty. Irina was her name. And his teeth had not been so bad then. They had kissed, and she had nipped his tongue, accusing him of stinginess and cruelty. So they had gone. To McDonald's.

There was a line, of course. But it moved with remarkable speed. The employees behind the clean, brightly lit counter smiled, and he assumed that they must be foreigners. That led to his first shock. The salesgirl greeted him with a lilting Moscow accent, asking after his desires. He stumbled over the peculiar names—his military English classes had not included these
"
Bik Meeks.
"
With startling speed, the meal appeared before him on a tray, artfully packaged. His money was taken and change returned, and the smiling little Moscow girl repeated her greeting to the next citizen in line.

It had been indescribably painful to sit in the spotless, bustling restaurant, eating the delicious sandwich with helpless appetite and watching his girl gobble and smile, with little bits of America clinging to the spaces between her teeth. They had still played staff war games against the Americans in those days, it was an old habit that died hard, and the dexterity with which this American system had maneuvered him through a restaurant, ambushing him with food and fizzy cola, controlling his every action—it was an unnerving experience. If the Americans were this
good at so trivial an endeavor as running a restaurant .
.
. you had to wonder whether they might not be considerably better at military art than his superiors were willing to credit. It went back to the Marxist dialectic and the laws governing the conversion of quantitative change into qualitative.

After finishing the last seductive bite, he dragged his girl from beneath those golden arches of triumph. Out in the street they began a loud and too public argument as he vowed never to set foot in this restaurant of McDonald's again. She called him a pompous ass and a little shit. The skirmish took place in front of an extremely interested crowd, several members of which were anxious to take sides, and, in the end, the trip to McDonald's not only failed to result in a trip to Irina's bed—its outcome was his immediate and irrevocable expulsion from the beachhead he had battled to establish in her heart. She did not even return his calls, and the last time he caught a glimpse of her it was purely by chance. He was strolling through Moscow's broken heart, passing along the windows of the fateful Capitalist trojan horse. And there, imprisoned beneath those merciless golden arches, he saw his bright little Irina, driving her little white teeth into a hamburger sandwich and sharing her fried potatoes with another man.

The powerful drone of aircraft engines called Kozlov back to the present. Siberia. The razor's edge between victory and defeat. The immediacy of history in the making. And he realized that poor old Ivanov had picked the wrong man for this job.

It was impossible to like the Americans. But he had begun to suspect that they were not without honor. And courage. Overcoming his ferocious prejudice as best he could, Kozlov had decided to cast his lot on the side of the Bik Meek after all.

Valya stared at the sandwich in disgust. The protruding comers of cheese ran from yellow to brown and the bread looked dusty and withered. She did not even want to touch the food, much less eat it. Neither could she drink any more of the tea in which she had nervously and too readily indulged herself across the endless afternoon.

"
Really, Citizen Babryshkina,
"
the interrogating officer said,
"
you must eat something. To keep your strength up.
"

"
I'm not hungry,
"
Valya said.

The officer sighed.
"
I'm sorry we can't offer you something tastier. But, after all, this is not a luxury hotel of the sort to which you have become accustomed.
"

"
I can't eat.
"

The officer threw up his hands in a motherly gesture. He was a very large man, with white indoor skin and colorless hair. Except for his size, he would have been invisible in a crowd.

"
Citizen Babryshkina—Valya, may I call you Valya?
"
he asked, glancing at the stack of photographs that lay in slight disorder beside the plate. Valya's eyes automatically followed those of her interrogator.
"
After all,
"
the big man said,
"
I don't think it would be too great an intimacy, under the circumstances.
"

Valya said nothing. She looked at the top photograph. Even in the bad light, the details were all too clear.

"
Yes, Valya,
"
the officer continued.
"
You're known to have quite an appetite. And you mustn't get sick on us. You're really—
"
he picked up a photograph, then discarded it again
"
—quite thin. Please do have a bite or two.
"

An obedient child, Valya took up half of the sandwich. But that was as much as she could manage. She could not raise it to her lips.

The officer came around the table, rushing to her assistance. He closed a big soft hand over Valya's fingers, pressing them into the staleness of the sandwich, and he helped her find her mouth.

"
No,
"
she muttered. Then she felt the stiffened edge of cheese, the sharp crust pushing against her lips. The big hand crushed it ever so gently into her face, and the stink of the cheese made her feel faint.

Abruptly, the officer gave up on her. He let go of her hand and the crumpled sandwich slipped down over her chin, leaving a trail of odor and crumbs.

The officer sighed again, a disappointed parent.
"
You're such a bad girl, Valya. I worry about you.
"

The big man moved back to his seat across the little
table. For a moment, it seemed as though he had forgotten her. He took up the top few photos, inspecting them one after the other with the expression of a stamp collector paging through an unsatisfactory catalog. There wasn't the least hint of sexuality in his features.

"
Hard to fathom,
"
he said softly, as if to himself.
"
Now
this,
for instance
"
—he suddenly remembered Valya—
"
do you honestly
enjoy
that sort of thing?
"

He thrust the picture at Valya. It was as if the picture, too, had a foul smell to it, an odor far worse than the rancid cheese that lay broken on the plate.

"
I'm just curious,
"
the officer went on.
"
I'm afraid I'm not a very imaginative man. When it comes to that sort of thing.
"
He fumbled for a moment, hunting a specific photograph. Then he smiled and shook his head, offering yet another snapshot to Valya.
"
This, for instance. It never even occurred to me that people did such things to each other. I'm afraid I'm not much of a man of the world.
"
Valya considered the photo. Herself. And Naritsky. One of Naritsky's little games. It seemed so long ago now. How had they known? How long had they been watching her?

They had photos of her with years of lovers. With every one except Yuri. Only her husband seemed to hold no interest for them.

The interrogator made a little scolding noise, then tossed the photo back on the pile with all of the others.

"
Now the American,
"
he began,
"
in a way, I can understand that one. They're so rich—how much did he pay you, by the way?
"

Valya looked up in horror.

"
I'm just curious,
"
the officer said.

"
Nothing,
"
Valya cried.
"
For God's sake, what do you think I
am?
"

The officer looked at her for what seemed a terribly long time. Then he said:

"
What
should
I think, little Valya? Surely, you don't expect me to believe that an attractive young woman— well, perhaps not
so
young anymore—but let's say 'an attractive
Russian
woman,' shall we?
"
He looked from Valya's face down to the line of her breasts and back up
again. But there still was no trace of desire in his eyes. He might have been appraising an animal at a market.
"
Now you don't expect me to believe that you're so ... so indiscriminate . . . that you would simply throw yourself into bed with a foreigner whom you had met hardly an hour before without receiving some sort of . . . compensation?
"

Valya felt her cheeks burning. She recalled with piercing clarity the voices in the hotel night, the bellowing American beyond the thin wall, and the Russian woman cursing and demanding money.

"
I am not a prostitute,
"
Valya said quietly, as if trying to convince herself.

"
Oh, now. I never used such a word.
"
The interrogator smiled, more paternal than maternal this time.
"
Far from it. You're just a girl who likes to have a good time. And who, occasionally, runs a bit short of money.
"

"
I'm not a prostitute
,
"
Valya screamed. She gripped the sides of the flimsy table, even rising slightly from her seat.

The interrogator was unruffled.
"
Of course not. If you say so. In any case, I'm not a stickler about terminology.
"

Valya collapsed back into her chair.
"
I'm not a prostitute,
"
she repeated, with a noticeable catch in her voice.

"
Now, Valya,
"
her tormentor continued.
"
Little Valya. Let's look at the facts.
"
He glanced back toward the litter of photographs but made no move to consult them again.
"
You were a married woman. Nonetheless, you carried on a virtual carnival of affairs behind your poor husband's back. Why, when he was off supposedly defending the motherland, you even had to abort your child by a notorious black marketeer. Now let's see—that was your third abortion, correct?
"
He took up his pencil.