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I was still in the torture dungeon but I couldn’t remember what I had done; the memories were like movie clips minus a coherent narrative. The snapping of an arm bone (my own). The gouging of eyes, the crushing of throats (not my own). The Grizzlies truly had no chance, no matter their number. If only they’d taken my drink order.

I found my clothes neatly folded in a cardboard box, along with my wallet, fake passport, watch, even my flask. Which was empty. Bastards either drank it or dumped it and that was a filthy crime either way. I could feel my adrenaline reserves building back up and that was bad. I twisted open the flask and breathed in some faint Canadian Club fumes but that only made it worse. I was Tantalus, alternately stopping down and reaching up.

I had no choice but to quickly shower the blood off my body in a stall most likely reserved for interrogation sessions. The tiles were chipped and scummed over with what seemed like decades of mildew and splattered blood. The cold water was like razors against my flesh and I somehow felt dirtier after the shower than before it. But at least I had the appearance of a regular citizen again. It hurt to button my shirt and I found myself incoherently angry at the buttons themselves, who I decided in that moment had no right to exist. It took a superhuman effort not to pluck them from my shirt and snap them in half.

On the way out I had a glimpse of what I had done.

Boy did I need a drink.

Bent

As it turned out, I ended up at the same zakaska where they’d fingered me. If their colleagues were looking for me, this would be the last place they’d look. Plus, it was only a few blocks away from the site of my would-be torture. When in doubt, go with what you know.

My plan was to have just one. One cold nourishing shot of that sweet amber fluid, just to keep the living weapon quiet. The bowtied bartender looked at me with faint surprise when I held up a trembling index finger. That finger, half a second later, was joined by a middle, ring, and pinkie.

“Your sweetheart was badly injured,” he said in Polish as he tilted the bottle of Żołądkowa Gorzka four times in rapid succession. “Her tailbone. She had to go to the hospital.”

“She was not my sweetheart,” I said. “If she said so, then she was telling filthy whore lies.”

The bartender’s reaction was one of astonishment. Had I not translated “filthy whore lies” correctly? Either way he left me to my shots, which I downed with Soviet efficiency.

I thought that four shots would be enough. There were things to do, a border to cross, and a handler to reach. I could find more drinks along the way. Mom and Dad would be wondering about me. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been gone in that torture room. Not too long, apparently, if the bartender was talking about my sweetheart’s tailbone as though the memory was still fresh. Maybe a day, or two? I wondered how long ago I’d killed my captors. I should have checked their bodies. Sometimes in the aftermath, when my adrenaline was depleted, I would just sit there in a fugue state for hours. Again, another downside to the whole living weapon idea.

I should be going, but something compelled me to order another four shots. And then four to join that. Pretty soon I was feeling like myself again and feeling optimistic about the future. I even ordered some herring.

But as day turned to night, and I pushed the needle up past the redzone, my mood darkened considerably. I wanted out. Out of all of this filth and blood and pain and violence and tears and lies and headaches and rage. To think: at some point, this had just been about book money.

Hatch

I was sitting in the Vienna International Airport cocktail lounge having a Manhattan rocks, idly munching on peanuts, waiting for the phone call. The girl had promised she’d fetch me when it came. I tipped her well and ordered another Manhattan, as well as a beer chaser. I wanted to be all sorted out for the plane. Of course, I wasn’t going anywhere until the call came.

You may be wondering why the Agency would employ a full-time lush who was just a few short hours away from a crazy murder jag at any given moment. I’ve wondered the same thing myself.

From an operational standpoint it makes a certain amount of sense. Plenty of Agency men drink, but none of them go at it with quite the same can-do spirit. To the outside observer I drank way too much to be a professional anything, let alone an Agency professional. Nor did I look the part. Later I had learned that I’d been selected for the big top-secret 129 flavors project because of my physical appearance. Tweedy, featherweight, four-eyed. If you’re going to have anyone be a living weapon, might as well be someone who looks as if he’d have a hard time lifting the swatter, let alone working up the courage to swing it. And looks as though he might even shed a few tears for the fly.

There’s an expression I’ve heard. High-functioning alcoholics. Well I was a higher-functioning alcoholic.

What else was I going to do with my life? Certainly couldn’t go home. The folks, friends, whoever... they wouldn’t recognize me. I’d burned away most of my former self in those lab trials. And good riddance. You wouldn’t have liked him much anyway.

By the time I had four cherries lined up on the paper napkin at my elbow, the girl came for me. The receiver in the phone booth across the way was on top of the box. I picked up my drink and ordered another two. This time, I told her, forget the cherries. I stepped into the phone booth, nudged the door closed with my knee, and sat down. Some of my drink sloshed out over the edge of the glass, baptizing my knuckles.

“Hello, Mom,” I said.

“What in the blue blazes happened?”

Oh. This was Dad, which was a surprise. I thought I’d be receiving instructions from Mom. Dad was more to the point, but Mom was more fun.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I just barely escaped a torture room with my life and managed to scramble out from under the Iron Curtain. I’ve been sitting here waiting for your call. I’m very bored. The lounge here doesn’t have real maraschinos. Just those nuclear-neon things you find in a supermarket. What’s the point of that?”

“You slaughtered your extraction team,” Dad said.

I waited a beat before replying: “You know, I’m fairly sure I didn’t.”

“Only the girl lived. She told us you went crazy.”

“If that was the extraction team, why did they decide it was a good idea to give me an orchiectomy?”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“They were a torture squad, Dad. They took out my transport man, put the girl in his place. You need to find her. She’ll be able to tell you everything.”

Dad was quiet for a few moments. “Dannemora says you assaulted her then fled the pickup.”

“She has her version, I have mine.”

That left Dad utterly exasperated. He had no idea how to respond, and I had no idea how to follow up. I drained the rest of my Manhattan then rattled the ice in the highball glass.

“Did you make the drop?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me where.”

“I can only tell Mom. You know that.”

“Mom is unavailable.”

“Then it can wait.”

Another long, awkward pause.

“Go somewhere,” he finally said. “I want you to be out of sight for a while until I sort this out. Can you do that?”

“I can do that. I’ll send word the usual way. Oh, and when you speak to the girl, send her my apologies, and I do hope her tailbone is feeling better.”

Dad clicked off somewhere during that last sentence. I hung up and walked back to my table where two fresh Manhattans, no cherries, were waiting for me, along with a full glass of beer. Nat King Cole’s “Those Lazy, Hazy Crazy Days of Summer” was playing through the hall.