Churgin’s presence was a startling surprise, but the value of Garin’s professional training was its preparation for the unforeseen. Churgin’s appearance caused Garin to rethink things. Vengeance laid its cold hand on his heart. He stared at Churgin through the fog, thinking about old wounds. Urgency stirred. Things were not playing out as he had expected. Ever since they’d arrived at Uzhgorod, he’d believed they would safely cross the Czech border and then he’d enjoy a glorious success.
“Let’s go,” Mueller repeated. “There is nothing we can do.”
Garin threw off Mueller’s hand and stepped forward. There were only four of them in view now on the Soviet side, or five with the driver, hardly visible behind the windshield. The driver turned, and Garin saw Lieutenant Colonel Talinov behind the wheel. Deputy Chairman Churgin and Natalya were visible, as were the two nervous border guards, but he knew others were hidden in the eddying fog. Talinov remained in the car. The odds were terrible. That was Garin’s thought as he stepped forward.
“You had less gray hair in your photographs,” Churgin said. “I’m not the first one to make that observation. Posner said it, too. ‘He’s gone gray. You wouldn’t recognize him without his moustache.’
“But there’s still a likeness to your photograph among the graduating class at Dzerzhinsky Institute. How clever you have been, Aleksander Leontyevich, thinking you could enter your country, do this business, and be gone before we were able to recognize you. Fortunately, Posner had his people compare the likenesses. When he knew you’d betrayed him, he did not hesitate to tell us what he had discovered. Your scar made the connection. I can’t see it from here, but I’m sure I’ll have a closer look when we’re finished talking.”
Deputy Chairman Churgin pushed Natalya forward, squeezing her elbow. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Ten minutes earlier and we would have stopped you. The airport took too long to open, so we couldn’t land.” He shook his head.
“We always knew you could be a risk. We trained you too well. We knew the mother’s loyalty might not transfer to the son. You were an experiment. An American boy with Russian roots. Our Manchurian Candidate inside the CIA. But not all experiments work out.”
The deputy chairman continued to move forward, but even as he talked, his serpent eyes fixed on Garin and the Mercedes that was stopped short of the Czech border.
“A trade,” Churgin said. “Her for him.” He nodded at Petrov, who stood among the Czech guards, holding his wife and son.
“That’s not going to happen,” Mueller said. “We’ve won, understand? This operation is over.”
“It’s over!” Garin shouted at Churgin.
“For you,” he said. “Not for her.”
Garin felt his anger stir. “Me for her,” he said. “A good trade. You’ll have your pound of flesh.”
“No!” Natalya shouted. “You’re an idiot.”
“A good trade,” Garin repeated. “A big prize to take back to Moscow. Show how this was a clever ploy to snare me. You’ll become Hero of the Soviet Union.”
Deputy Chairman Churgin contemplated the offer, and he evaluated the ten meters that separated the two small groups. Garin was a step ahead of Mueller, facing Churgin, and behind each side, security forces moved in the fog. The sounds of hustling boots filled the silence that fell over the small patch of earth. There was the feeling of truce in the air. An offer had been made, terms of the trade set, and with it came an unstable peace.
Mueller had taken a step forward and, unseen, lodged his .45-caliber Colt pistol in the small of Garin’s back, under his belt. “She’s not worth it,” he whispered. “You’ve lost your mind.”
Garin stepped forward with his hands raised over his head in surrender, but he kept his eyes on Churgin’s face, and he also observed the vague forms moving through the fog on the Soviet side. Garin had no idea what he was going to do, but he embraced the uncertainty like an old friend who’d come to pay an unannounced visit. This was his life. He’d sworn he’d never do it again, but here he was with a taste for revenge, and it wasn’t in his nature to give up a chance to balance the scales of old wrongs. But none of this was in his conscious mind; none of it a conscious choice. He was a wolf advancing on its prey.
Garin didn’t see Natalya’s left hand move until it had already struck Churgin in the windpipe, stunning him. Her other hand grabbed his pistol, and there was a violent scuffle. The stronger but stunned Churgin fought the weaker but fiercer Natalya for possession of the Makarov. In the brief moment of intense struggle, a shot rang out.
Churgin stepped away from Natalya with his pistol dangling from his hand, stunned. His free hand had gone to his throat, and he struggled with quick, sucking breaths. He stumbled backward, dazed, and in doing so, Natalya was left standing alone.
Her palms were crimson, and she looked at the wetness covering her hands. They had come off her side, where a widening stain darkened her gray tunic. Her startled eyes stared at the blood, and for a moment she seemed disbelieving—almost peaceful in shock. A protest fell from her lips. No. She raised her eyes.
Garin looked for encouragement in her face but saw only trauma and disbelief. She raised herself, trying to stand tall and carry her wound stoically.
Churgin pushed her forward, causing her to stumble, but she recovered a weak stride. “This is what you want,” he cursed. “Your little red sparrow with her broken wing. Take her. Perhaps she’ll live.”
Garin stood absolutely still, watching for danger, looking for an opportunity to present itself. Time slowed. He considered a way through the terrible choices. Nothing he had ever done prepared him for this outcome. His eyes shifted to the Soviet border guards, who moved in the obscuring fog with weapons raised, and he felt vulnerable standing in the open beyond the searchlight. He looked at the two Americans, who held back, horrified but unwilling to help. Garin felt the cold steel of the Colt lodged against his back.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Churgin said. “Make this easy.” He raised the pistol and pointed it at the nape of Natalya’s neck. “She’s weak. She won’t live unless she gets to a hospital. She is all yours. Dolboyob.” Fuckhead.
Garin slowly rose to his full height and marched toward Churgin with his hands over his head.
“Leave her!” Mueller shouted.
Garin moved through the ellipsis of light from the watchtower’s beam, which had shifted and dimly illuminated Churgin and Natalya on the empty stage. Misting rain had strengthened to a cold drizzle that came in a steady stream, wetting Garin’s hair. Rivulets rolled down his face. Garin entered the beam’s perimeter, joining the two Russians, and in approaching, he looked at Natalya for a sign that she would live. Her mouth had formed a protest, but the words were prisoners of her terror, and her eyes were wide with fear. She stared at him indignantly. Rain streaming down her pale face washed away her tears. In passing, their eyes met, and he nodded his instruction to proceed to safety on the Czech side.
Garin had gone several yards past Churgin on his way to the Soviet checkpoint, his eyes taking in the relaxed vigilance of the border guards. They had lowered their weapons to receive the surrendering man. Garin took it all in like a sentry scanning a battlefield, collecting intelligence. Then he appeared to stumble. He dropped to his knee, and his right hand reached behind for the Colt, releasing the safety. He was certain that he had to kill Churgin for the suffering he had inflicted.
Garin gathered the courage that was companion to his fear. This was how it would end, he thought. In his dreams, he had always tried to kill Churgin, but the man eluded his efforts. He wasn’t dreaming a dream now—he was steps away from the monster.