Besides, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't a state of exile being here in the very northeastern tip of the Soviet Union; it was more like an unscheduled, involuntary reassignment. He had free housing, free food, vehicles at his disposal and a few hundred rubles extra every month being sent back to his family i Irkutsk.
Plus, he had responsibility and a lot of autonomy. During the preceding two months and for the next two, he had been an would be the chief custodian of a Far East Defense Force. Fighter-Interceptor Base.
It didn't matter that there were no fighters here-he was in charge of the base. He was the chief policeman, firefighters banker, lawyer, janitor and mayor of millions of rubles of equipment and buildings.
During the long dark winter months he was the richest and most powerful man in this province of fishermen, trappers, and loggers.
Sergei now deftly manipulated a hand-whittled pair of chopsticks to pick up a mass of noodles and fish. He had grow the seasonings and herbs himself in a greenhouse on the base and he frequently traded with the villagers and nearby fishermen for the fish and flour to make the noodles. They seemed to have everything, and Sergei was sure that the fishermen took their boats out into the wild Anadyrskij Zaliv across to Saint Lawrence Island or even Nome to trade with the Americans.
He passed his nose over the noodles and spiced fish. It was a strange concoction for breakfast, but his only other option was some four-month-old ryepa-turnips-from some old witch in town. No thank you.
He brought the savory, heavily spiced noodles to his lips and was about to take a bite when the double — doors leading to the outer hallway burst open and two figures rushed into the tiny office and half-stumbled, half-ran up to the chest-high counter that extended the length of the room.
The taller of the two was dragging his right leg, which was covered with blackened blood from toe to hip. He had an arm over the shoulder of his companion, who was wrapped in a coarse green blanket.
"Gdve poonkt skoray pomashchi!" the injured man screamed in thick monotone Russian. "My leg!Where's the hospital?"
Sergei nearly dropped his noodles in his lap. "What?"
"Where is the hospital?My leg-" "There is no hospital. What happened to your leg?" Sergei came quickly from behind the long counter to the two men.
Except on closer inspection he found that the man in the blanket was a woman. She had long, salt-and-pepper gray hair and deep, dark eyes-she could have been Oriental herself, Sergei guessed, or Latin. Her lips chattered in the cold as she looked quickly at Sergei, then averted her eyes to her injured companion.
The man dragged himself over to a rough wooden bench in a far corner of the office and dropped onto it. He was tall and ruggedly built, perhaps an old military man. He looked frozen as well, and his skin was gray and sunken-probably from loss of blood, Sergei thought.
"Gyde polizei?" the man said. His accent was strange, obviously not from the local area, although very few locals were from this obscure corner of the world.
"Why do you want the police?" Sergei bent to examine the man's leg.
He couldn't see the wound itself but the blood loss was obviously great. "There are no police here. The village constables won't come to the base. I will help you all I can, but only if you tell me-" — A@yet, spasiba. "Suddenly Sergei was looking into the barrel of a very big, very ugly blue-black automatic pistol. As the muzzle touched his nose, Sergei slowly rose and backed away.
The woman threw off her blanket and helped the injured man to his feet.
Her clothing made Sergei forget about the pistol.
She was wearing a short, rough blue jacket-denim. She was wearing denim. And then Sergei noticed her blue jeans ant fancy leather boots.
blue jeans?" Sergei said, one of the few foreign phrases he knew.
— Gdye mozhna koopit blue jeans?"
The woman turned to her companion. "What did he say, General?"
"I didn't catch it all, but the man likes your blue jeans," Elliott said. He turned toward the double doors. "Patrick!"
Crouching low, McLanahan rushed through the doors, a.38 caliber survival revolver clutched in his hand. He ran over to the Russian and pointed his revolver at the man's temple.
Sergei closed — his eyes.
"Search him," Elliott ordered. McLanahan quickly patsearched Sergei, keeping his revolver aimed at his head. Elliott then turned Sergei around and backed him into the bench, forcing him to sit. With both his own and McLanahan's guns still pointed, Elliott took Sergei's hands and put each one on top of his head. Sergei sat on the wooden bench, eyes tight shut.
"Vi gavariti pahanglivski?" Elliott was asking if he spoke English.
Sergei opened his eyes, forced himself to look at each of the strangers.
"A@vet. Please don't kill me "Pazhaloostal gavariti myedlinna, Elliott said, telling him to speak slowly. The man looked less terrified now, though very confused. "Kagda polizei virnyotsa?" Elliott asked when the police would be back.
"No police," Sergei replied. He kept his hands up, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. Slowly he said in Russian, "Police… do not come… to base."
"I understood the no," McLanahan said, taking a doublehanded grip on the pistol.
"I think he's saying there are no police," Elliott asked. "This asking if we have fish?I don't Then he did. He nodded at the Russian, who nodded in return. Elliott pulled him up off the bench and allowed him to lower his hands.
McLanahan didn't lower his revolver. "What's the story, General?"
"Black market," Elliott said, smiling. The Russian smiled back. "This gentleman runs some kind of black market out here. If my guess is right, he trades fish, meat, cheese, and stuff for gasoline."
Sergei let out a sigh of relief when the younger man finally lowered his revolver-his eyes had looked scared, but his hand didn't waver and Sergei had no doubt he would have pulled the trigger in an instant.
Followed by the younger man, Sergei went to a locker behind his desk and pulled out his hat, mittens and coat. As he pulled them on he had a chance to examine the young man's coat. It was thick, dark gray, and it didn't look like cotton or leather.
Slowly, carefully, he reached over to the man's collar and touched it.
It looked like cloth but felt like plastic. A plastic coat?It had pockets on the front and arms that fastened with strange zipperless fasteners. Who were these men?And why were they wearing plastic and warm while their women wore rare expensive cotton denim but was freezing to death?
"This is going to be rough-I can understand about every fifth word."
He leaned forward, still aiming his pistol at Sergei's forehead.
"Binzuh, binzuh. Gasoline. Binzuhkalonka?"
Sergei looked relieved. "Pazhaloosta!" Sergei asked. "Don't worry, tovarisch. Put down your gun, I won't turn you in, I know the routine "Whatever you said, General," Angelina said, "the man looks happy now.
What'd he say?"
"Hell if I know. I just asked him for gasoline. I'm his comrade now, that's all I understood."
They were speaking English, Sergei said to himself.
Obviously only the old man knew any Russian at all-the younger ones still wore blank expressions.
Sergei winked and tried to stand. McLanahan pushed him back down.
Sergei looked at the strangers with a mixture of surprise and humor.
"Yest 1i oo vas riba?" Sergei asked. "Sir?Kooritsa?I will 9 trade. No problem."
"Fish?Cheese?Chicken?" Elliott said to himself. "He's Elliott saw the fur-lined coat the Russian wore and glanced at the shivering Angelina.
— Mnye noozhnuh advezhda, " El said. He pointed at the fur billowing out from the Russ' collar. "Baranina.
Sergei nodded, reached into his locker and took out a severe-weather coat, a long, heavy sealskin greatcoat wolf-fur lining the hood, then went over to the woman and it out to her. Angelina, noticing the man's obvious interest in her denim jacket, slipped it off and held it out to him.