Boots trudged through the mud, slurping and sucking. Keys jangled. Metal scratched metal and the padlock to the shed opened.
Byrnes gripped the stone close to his chest, the stabbing of his wounded thumb stoking his resolve to act. This was his chance. He was sick and getting sicker. His throat was raw, and he had begun coughing. He was starved and feverish. Another night in the open and he’d be too weak to stand, let alone escape.
A boot landed near his head. The mess tin holding his ration of tepid soup dropped into the mud, spilling half its contents. He made no move toward it. That morning, like the night before, he’d played the dying wretch, murmuring “Doctor” over and over again. Now he was silent. He sensed his jailer’s presence, could smell the pig shit on his boots. He urged him closer. He wanted to feel his breath, to look into his eyes. Then he would strike.
The jailer hawked and spat on Byrnes’s back, then he muttered a word and laughed.
The boots moved away. One step. Two.
No! screamed Byrnes in private torment. You cannot leave. He gripped the stone harder. It was blunt and heavy. Trying to dig his way under the wall, he’d found it beneath six inches of topsoil and clay. Great treasures had been more easily won.
The jailer stopped, and Byrnes heard his breathing, the jagged wheeze of a lifelong smoker. He sensed the man’s indecision. There came a new sound—the rustle of clothing—followed by a distinctive two-tiered click. The rain seemed to amplify it, and Byrnes knew it was a firing pin being cocked. He clenched his body, willing himself not to move.
Lie still. Lie absolutely still.
The gun fired, a deafening explosion inside the shed. The bullet impacted the ground an inch from Byrnes’s eyes, blasting him with mud and stone.
Lie still.
Seconds passed.
The boots approached and prodded his ribs. First gently. Then less gently. Byrnes scrunched his face, biting back the pain. A labored groan as the jailer knelt on his haunches and slid his hands beneath the prisoner. Another grunt as he turned him over.
Byrnes opened his eyes. And in the moment before he smashed the rock against the Russian’s cheek, he met his jailer’s gaze.
“Bastard, go spit on someone else.”
“Chto?”
The rock crushed the man’s face, toppling him to the earth, leaving him sitting upright, stunned and immobile. A jagged gash on his cheek leaked blood.
Rushing to his feet, Byrnes brought the stone above his head. He was slow and awkward, and by the time he’d clamored to his feet, the jailer was up too, a mean, dumb grin on his face. A hand fell to his belt, and dropping his gaze from Byrnes, he searched for his pistol. Byrnes charged, ramming the Russian with his head, driving him against the wall. It was then he knew that his jailer was drunk. It wasn’t the smell so much as the man’s general lassitude, the confused coordination.
Throwing his left arm high and pinioning the man’s neck, Byrnes scrabbled for the pistol, his infected thumb screaming at every contact. “Stop it,” he yelled, retreating a second later, the pistol held in his right hand. He was irate, crazed, divinely pissed off. “You think you can lock a man up, barely feed him, leave him to die slow? Do you? Answer me!”
The Russian was leering crazily, teetering on his feet. He wasn’t drunk—he was absolutely shit-faced. Three sheets to the fuckin’ wind. “You ready? Eh, Amerikanski?”
“Don’t,” said Byrnes, his anger seeping from him. “Nyet. You stay there.”
Muttering, the Russian took a step forward, spreading his arms as if entering the wrestlers’ circle. “Come. You want fight?”
“Stay there.”
The pistol was an old.22 long barrel. A peashooter. The cylinder held six slugs. Holding it proved difficult, but Byrnes managed by using both his hands, the palm of his left hand pressing the butt firmly into his right. “Stay right there,” he said again. He had no desire to kill a man.
Then everything happened quickly, but in distinct steps, so that afterward Byrnes was able to dissect them in minute detail.
The Russian leaped forward, growling like a bear. Byrnes fired the pistol into his gut. A meek geyser of blood spouted forth, then died. The Russian swatted at it as if it were a fly, nothing more, and kept coming. Byrnes raised the gun. At a distance of two feet and closing, he fired into the man’s chest. It was a bull’s-eye. The jailer collapsed at the knees and fell face forward to the ground without uttering so much as a whisper.
Byrnes looked down at the body, the acrid scent of the spent cordite sickening his stomach. His ears rang from the shots, dizzying him. “Stupid fool,” he said, half out loud, kicking the corpse lightly.
Kneeling, he turned the Russian over and began unbuttoning his coat. He started at the neck and worked his way down, helping the buttons through the eyelets with his index fingers, not daring to let his thumbs do the work. Even so, the pain was nearly too much. Several times, he drew his hands away and swore viciously.
Trouble arrived with the third button. It was stuck. He tried everything to get it undone but it would not advance through the eyelet. “Sonuvabitch,” he said, taking a deep breath, looking toward the door. He needed the jacket. He needed something dry, something warm. Oh Jesus, he needed it.
“Slowly,” he urged himself.
Moving closer to the body, he leaned over the Russian’s chest. There was surprisingly little blood and the coat was not as dirty as he’d expected. With iron discipline he commanded his fingers to move. His left index and middle fingers carefully spread the eyelet wide. With his right index finger, he maneuvered the drab gray button through it. A smile creased his face. “Gotcha!”
“Nyet!” screamed the Russian, sitting up, wrapping his hands around Byrnes’s neck, squeezing with all his might, sharp uncut nails digging into his flesh. “Nyet, Amerikanski.”
In a moment, the jailer was on top of him, straddling his chest, the man’s weight full on his neck, strangling him. Byrnes fought at the hands, but could not grip them. The gun. Where was the gun? Byrnes groped around in the dirt. He was oblivious to the pain, to the daggers flaying his arms. Then he had it. Grasping the barrel, he bought the handle in a wide arc and struck the Russian across the bridge of the nose. Once. Twice. Blood gushed from both nostrils, but still the hands kept their grip, still those mad, leering eyes bored into him.
Byrnes felt the life ebbing from him, his vision dimming. Lowering the gun to the dirt, he turned it quickly and took hold of it by the grip. With a single fluid motion, he brought it up, laid the barrel against the jailer’s temple, and pulled the trigger. Gunpowder exploded and a spigot of blood blew out the opposite side of the jailer’s head. The death grip on Byrnes’s neck lessened. The light went out in the Russian’s eyes. Slumping, he collapsed on top of Byrnes, stone dead.
The engine rumbled roughly while the heater blasted him like a wind from hell. Behind the wheel of the pickup, Grafton Byrnes sat staring at the fence. The sliding ten-foot gates granting one entry and exit to Konstantin Kirov’s “dacha” were closed. Next to him on the seat was a remote-control device with a nine-digit keypad. He picked it up, held it in his right hand, using the fingers of his left to peck out a couple of tries. It was hopeless. He didn’t even know how many digits the code required. Three? Four? Five?
“Fuckin’ useless,” he muttered, dropping it on the seat.
Byrnes was wearing his jailer’s jacket, as well as his socks and boots. The gun was back in the shed with the dead Russian. It turned out it was loaded with five bullets, not six, and between them, they’d fired them all. He had drunk his soup and found a chunk of bread in the pickup. He was alive and relatively well and had a few hundred rubles, a pocketknife, and a pack of cigarettes to get him to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow.