Kurganov swayed slightly as he stood up, holding his hands tightly behind him as if still manacled.
“A statistically predeterminable percentage die in the railroad cars and on the trek to the camps. This cannot be helped. Those weak in ideology will be weak in body. In the frozen cemeteries that pass as Corrective Labor Camps, these class enemies—a good many of which haven’t the remotest idea what they have done, and whose persecutors often have little better idea—may expect a degrading end in utter despair. Slow death by interminable beatings, exposure, or starvation are the prevalent options; the stronger, however, can add scurvy and pellagra to their choices.
“Families are divided among the camps. Daughters and wives are used by the camp officers, guards, trustees….”
And this stooped, frail man had withstood it all. He had endured fifteen years in an icy hell that, by sheer number of deaths, made Hitler’s a five-and-dime operation. It was beyond imagining how anyone could survive the sixty-below-zero winters of Siberia in what we would consider spring street clothing.
But where and how did I enter into all this?
“…in calling the world’s attention to this continuing atrocity, I incurred the wrath of the Soviet Republic (which had been so good as to return to me the freedom with which I had been born). I expected and was prepared to accept whatever treachery lay in store for me personally. By this time my wife was dead, my daughter, as if by a gift, insane. But the benevolent and all-knowing republic has found a way to bring revenge upon me, though it knows nothing short of death will stop my writing.”
Yes, I thought, there was little that could or should stop his writing, yet what cost must a man pay—and keep paying? would he ever have any peace, whether he continued or not?
“As a university student before the war, I studied to be a physicist. At the university an older student from my hometown, Yuri Vyshinsky, took me under his tutelage. We were very close. It was he who introduced me to my wife. Those were happy times, vibrant with laughter in the student drinking halls. I was blissfully ignorant of politics and strove to remain that way.
“Yuri often asked me, in a veiled way, what good was harnessing the universe when at the same time men’s souls were being tethered. ‘Couldn’t I think of any higher calling than physics?’ I couldn’t understand him. Wasn’t he a physics student himself? I sensed he questioned my particular vocational choice. Despite these mystifying exchanges, we remained firm and loyal friends.
“Not until several years later, after capture with my artillery unit and my subsequent escape from a German POW camp, did I begin to understand Yuri. To our Soviet masters, the story of my escape and naïve return to the Red Army had to be the flimsy cover story of a spy. (In retrospect, I now fully appreciate how incredible such an act must have appeared to one who understood the Soviet system—which I did not, then.)
“The first weeks, those weeks before you’re sent to a camp, are the hardest. I was thrown into an ancient prison east of Moscow. Despair is simply a word until you have survived long periods of torture and lack of sleep.
“Your thinking changes when the single driving purpose of life is the avoidance of pain. You begin to doubt everything and abandon all you once valued. You decide that you were a fool. Your whole spectrum was off center. If this is the depths of man’s depravity toward man then you must shift your moral spectrum a good deal lower. You were aiming too high when you sought the center. You expected too much. Obviously if men permit such a system, this is the system they deserve. I had hit, I believe the American expression is, ‘rock bottom.’
“Then, during one particularly savage beating, Yuri’s words came to me. Yes, there was a higher calling than physics—not the caduceus, nor the scales, nor the sword, but—the pen. A reason for living now separated me from the doomed. Eventually I was to see thousands die who had no cause but personal survival. My cause was survival, but more, to destroy the system that established and maintained the camps.
“Yuri cared for my wife and daughter until they, too, were imprisoned. He smuggled us all food and notes of encouragement. Yuri’s words kept me alive and gave me a mission. I endured knowing someday I would fight back. All this I owe Yuri and can never pay back.
“I have never mentioned Yuri by name, but he appears as a character in many of my books. The KGB wasn’t able to establish his identity until recently. They seized him on as flimsy a pretext as they ever need and have transported him to a camp somewhere near the Sea of Okhotsk. Yuri was never a strong man physically. As a special prisoner—a status his association with me will rate him—he can’t last six months.”
Kurganov brought his trembling, gnarled hands before him and stared straight at me through those mournful hound-dog eyes.
“That is why I need your help. You must rescue Yuri from that corrective labor camp in eastern Siberia.”
CHAPTER 3
I whistled two long notes. Q. Frazer Enterprises; the extremely difficult we accomplish immediately, the impossible takes a little longer.
“Lieutenant Commander Frazer, I have never done anything by part measures. You are a top man in your field. I am confident if anyone can effect this rescue, it must be a man of your experience. You must tell me you will do it for me. Yes, you must tell me that.”
His confidence was flattering but was it well founded? Admittedly I had done several prisoner rescues and agent exfiltrations while on active duty. Recently, I’d smuggled families out of East Germany and Iran. This was well beyond all that—by contrast those operations were wading-pool exercises. This was a Channel swim.
I rubbed my right shoulder.
But where else could Kurganov go? The Central Intelligence Agency wouldn’t touch a bombshell like this in its present emasculated form. Moreover, there was nothing in it for the Company. Bluntly, Yuri had only sentimental value.
Had anyone else asked, I would have politely declined. Access to Siberia was too limited, the number of risks from man and weather too high, the probability of success too low. But this giant had six decades of Russian suffering etched on his face and it was a heavier burden than any man deserved.
“Mr. Kurganov, I’ll look into it. There are many reasons why such an operation may not be feasible. I must know all you know about camp life, where Yuri is held, as well as what intelligence I can gather on the region before I can give you a conclusive answer. If it can be done, I will find and train the men to do it. I assure you. One other thing, this is going to call for considerable resources.”
Sato translated and Kurganov smiled. It seemed such a shock to see a face like that distorted into a smile. I had the urge to hug him, it must have been the Russian influence.
“Lieutenant Commander, I am a rich man… a best-selling author with much, too much money. You will receive…” he named a sensible number “…plus expenses. I will cover the invoices for anything that needs to be done.”
He clearly was not overpaying me personally. I liked his emphasis on the job rather than the rewards. Professionalism in this business did not equate with big dollars. Kurganov had done his homework; he knew Frazer.
I don’t know who had convinced him he was employing a genuine professional and not some useless driftwood. What would I do with the money? Hell, I’d only spend it. For Kurganov, I’d have agreed to try it for a good bottle of vodka. Well, nearly.
But perhaps he was right and I was the genuine professional he thought my record indicated. Already I was weighing different plans. A thousand questions were caroming about within the inner armor of my brain. Most were about the rescue… some were about Kurganov.