A soldier appeared with his machine-pistol at the ready. Mihailo dove to the floor behind a brick wall covered in chipped whitewash and squirmed behind a large, metal plate. A burst of automatic fire tore the air above him as he pressed his body into the rock dust on the floor. Blood ran down his face from contact with the bricks.
He was a normal man, not a soldier. He was a child, a kindergarten adventurer pretending to be an intelligence operative. He could never in his life have imagined what it was like to be shot at.
An instinctive, animal-like desire to live, overcame him. He could see the figure of the soldier through a narrow space between the metal sheet and brick wall. Not a man, but a figure, rushing toward him, death in camouflage, an occupier prepared to kill him just as he’d killed many others. Biting his lip, Mihailo pressed against the cold wall and tried to move the metal sheet. Its sharp surface cut his fingers, but it moved. The Russian soldier turned toward the sound, but too late. Mihailo was already on his feet with pistol aimed, and he pulled the trigger.
A high, sharp cry followed the shot, echoed off the ruined walls and died. His feet leaden, Mihailo approached the body. He was shaking and encompassed by alternating waves of hot and cold. The room around him dimmed, and he prayed for strength. The enemy in camouflage lay at his feet, a thoroughly dead “little green man.” Mihailo picked up the machine-pistol and ran to a breach in the wall.
Finally and unredeemably, the war had caught up with him in all its relentless, bloody essence — with a single shot, his first kill, his first real battle.
He made it to the street and passed through some bushes and a hole in the factory fence.
The fake ID was still in his pocket. It would take some time for his pursuers to pass his name to the road blocks, and Mihailo hoped he could get as far as the recently liberated village of Kramatorsk and from there travel safely to Kharkov.
Chapter 19
Yekatarinburg, Russia
The capital of the Urals greeted Olga with a golden autumn, sunny, full of color, and a clear, bottomless blue sky, gentle and charming. She was met at the train station by a woman of around thirty, a tall, attractive blonde, tastefully dressed in a well-cut cream dress. She displayed a Hollywood smile, the epitome of perfection right off the pages of a fashion magazine. The smile seemed genuine, warm — or Olga simply wanted it to be so.
“Greetings. I’m Nastya,” said the vision. “How was the trip?”
“It was wonderful.”
“What would you prefer? Shall we go to the apartment immediately, or if you’re not too tired, I can show you the center of town.”
“I’m not a bit tired,” exclaimed Olga. At that moment she could walk through the entire, unfamiliar city if it were necessary. This adventure was so incredibly surreal to her.
“Good. Let’s go.” Nastya beamed and headed to her parked car.
Olga liked the city center. Of course, Yekatarinburg lacked the scale and majesty of Moscow with its broad thoroughfares, ancient, winding streets and splendid cathedrals. But it was clearly a successful metropolis. The carefully restored old buildings in the center made for attractive architectural variety. Sunlight reflected from the glass expanse of shopping centers and the Visotskiy Tower skyscraper.
The Vayner pedestrian street reminded her of Moscow’s Arbat, and the cobblestoned main square, named in honor of the 1905 Revolution was graced by a familiar statue of Lenin with his arm outstretched.
The river walk was just beyond the square, where the Iset River was channeled into a straight canal, bordered by pleasant walkways and parks. There was a small dam over which passed the inevitably named Lenin Prospect.
Nastya was a good tour guide. “A long time ago, there was a factory here, and that was the beginning of our city. This is the oldest part.” She pointed to a 19th Century structure with elegant, miniature columns, gothic arches and delicate stucco decoration on windows and cornices, the home of a famous native. Beyond this was the Governor’s residence.
Upon closer examination, the river was incredibly polluted, but when the sky reflected from its surface it appeared a crystalline blue. There were more 19th Century estates along the opposite bank, and just beyond were newer buildings, including the local White House with the Russian flag waving above.
They walked along the embankment toward a tall, white cathedral with golden cupolas.
“That’s the Temple of the Blood. It was built on the spot where Nikolas II and his family were executed,” explained Nastya. “And a little farther is the Resurrection Church.”
Without warning, Nastya interrupted her narrative to say, “By the way, I’m not giving you this tour just for fun. Over the next two weeks you must become intimately familiar with the city — all the main streets, public transport, traffic, attractions. Success will depend on it.”
Olga was surprised by Nastya’s suddenly serious, businesslike tone in contrast to her former chumminess. It was time to remember why she was here.
“Do you drive?” asked Nastya.
“I took lessons last year, but I’ve not had much experience.”
“You will,” Nasya assured her. “Well, shall we go home?” She was smiling again.
“Home” was a small, one-room apartment in a bedroom neighborhood where Olga would live for a month and a half. The outskirts of Yekaterinburg were identical to those in Moscow, the same gray slab, ten-story buildings, the same cozy, slightly overgrown courtyards with their squeaking swings, just like they were throughout Russia.
The apartment was furnished in old Soviet style. There was a stout, heavy table, an old-fashioned chest of drawers and shelves along one wall.
Waiting for them there a man of middle age with a severe air and a big, gray moustache that reminded her either of a walrus or Stalin. The very sight of him made Olga nervous. This man bore no resemblance to outgoing, charming Gleb Solntsev.
“Welcome to Yekaterinburg, Olga Vladimirovna.” The mustachioed man spoke with the manner of someone accustomed to obedience as he invited her to be seated. Gleb never used her name and patronymic. “My name is Boris Ivanovich. I congratulate you on your first assignment abroad, and to the States, at that. Do you understand how hard you’ll need to prepare for it?”
Olga nodded.
“You’ll live here. It looks pretty cozy to me. Nastya will pick you up every morning around eight, so you’ll have to be ready. You’ll study a lot, well into the night, until you’ve mastered all the required skills, perfected them. So take it seriously. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed,” she replied breathlessly as excitement mixed with panic grew within her, manifested by a lump rising in her throat. I won’t be able to do this! It’s all completely new to me.
“There’s a lot to learn,” continued Boris Ivanovich, “Surveillance, surveillance detection, working alone and as a team member, the use of special photographic devices, secret writing and encoding, maskirovka. Your life will depend on these skills, by the way.”
Olga’s head was spinning from a strange mixture of fear and exaltation. She curled her fingers in the cloth of the sofa, afraid of showing her feelings.
Things were not nearly so remarkable in practice as they seemed when she heard them for the first time. For two weeks she wandered the byways of Yekaterinburg, sometimes on foot, sometimes driving, but always under Nastya’s watchful eyes. Finally, she began to recognize patterns, intersections, landmarks and how they related one to another. Yekaterinburg revealed her face to Olga, an unforgettable diagram of buildings and streets.