The banging of a door drew his attention to the back porch of a frame cottage on the outskirts of the village. A woman wearing a thick gray sweater and a nondescript skirt, a basket balanced on one hip, strode across the hard-packed yard to where clothes hung up to dry flapped in the frigid air. As Stefan watched, she started to unpin a dress, then paused to run her hand down the cloth to the waistband. Frowning, she reached out to feel the cuffs of a nearby shirt. With a shake of her head, she stomped back toward the house. Stefan, watching her, let out his breath in a small sigh.
If he could, he would gladly pay the woman for the blue work shirt and trousers he could see hanging at the end of the line, near a weathered old shed. But he only had ten rubles in his pocket. If he wanted a change of clothes, he was going to need to steal them.
He felt his stomach roil with shame and despair at the thought. Five years ago, Stefan’s father had been faced with a choice: cooperate with a corrupt scheme to skim electrical components from the shipments his small trucking company ferried to the port, or die. Uncle Jasha always called his brother a fool, a martyr to an outmoded system of honor. But Stefan had been proud of his father, proud of his choice. Now, Stefan realized he had more in common with his uncle than he’d ever wanted to admit.
He crept painfully down the hill, his gaze on the cottage’s back door. His breath bunching up in his throat, he darted across the muddy road. Ducking behind the shed, he stood for a moment, hands splayed against the rough boards of the outbuilding, heart pounding. Swallowing hard, he threw one last, quick glance at the light that now flickered in the cottage window, and sprinted toward the clothesline.
He snatched the trousers and a clean shirt on the fly. With every step, he kept expecting to hear a shout, a cry of Stop! Thief! Trousers and shirt clutched to his chest, he ducked back behind the shed. He waited, trembling and listening. But all he could hear was the breeze rustling the autumn-shriveled leaves of a nearby birch and the lowing of a cow somewhere in the distance.
Hunkering down, he shucked off his sweater, stiff trousers, and shirt. The cold air bit his bare skin. He shivered and quickly scrambled into the purloined clothes. The trousers were a little damp around the cuffs, but blessedly soft. He pulled his own sweater back over his head, turned up the too-long trouser legs, and carefully transferred the contents of his pockets to his new clothes. He didn’t have much-the ten rubles, a piece of amber shaped like a horse’s head he’d picked up on the beach and kept for good luck, and the penknife his father had given him for his tenth birthday.
His heart was still hammering so hard his chest hurt, but he forced himself to roll up his own clothes and dash back into the farmyard to leave them as a kind of trade on the back stoop. He was just tucking the clothes roll under the step’s unpainted railing when the door jerked open and the woman in the gray sweater took a step out onto the porch.
She drew up abruptly, her eyes going wide, her jaw slack. She looked to be somewhere in her thirties, rail thin and bony, her straw-colored hair fading toward gray. Her gaze locked with Stefan’s. She swallowed convulsively and let out a shriek.
“Victor!” she screeched, whirling back into the house. “Victor. Come quick. Someone’s stolen my washing!”
Dropping his clothes bundle, Stefan bolted across the yard and down the rutted drive. It wasn’t until he reached the muddy road and threw a quick glance over his shoulder that he noticed the blue militia van parked out front.
Idiot! he thought, arms pumping and legs stretching out as he dashed up the street. What kind of imbecile steals clothes from a policeman’s wife?
Gasping with fear, he pelted over the arched bridge and into the hamlet. A bent old man in suspenders appeared at his doorway as Stefan streaked by. From the far side of the creek came Victor’s furious shout, “Stop that boy! He’s a thief!”
Stefan caught the sound of running footsteps pounding the dirt road behind him. His jaw clenched with concentration, he veered to his left, dodging another man in a butcher’s apron who made a grab for him. He could see a line of trees ahead, the beginnings of a patch of ancient forest that stretched across the next hill. The temperature was falling, the light cold and flat. It would be dark soon. If he could just make it to the trees…
He heard another shout from the militiaman behind him. Then a second man’s voice joined with his, the pounding of footsteps drawing nearer. Stefan could smell the sharp scent of the pines, the deep earthy humus of the forest floor rising up to beckon him on. Lungs aching, legs shaking with exhaustion and fear, he gave one last desperate spurt. Ten meters. Five. Then the darkness of the woods closed around him, like the embrace of a loving mother drawing a penitent son to her breast.
Monday morning dawned cold and overcast, the air pregnant with the scent of wood smoke and the dampness of coming rain. Rodriguez was up early, his feet pounding the pavement as he ran down a tree-lined avenue past an ancient graveyard with lichen-covered stones engraved with German names. Looking at the sturdy old houses and the red brick Gothic church, he could easily have imagined he was in Hamburg or Potsdam-except for the jarring reminder offered by the Cyrillic street sign at the corner.
He circled around the rusty iron fence enclosing the half-ruined church and started back. This place gave him the creeps. It reminded him of his grandparents’ house in Havana-lost, like these houses, to the spread of Communism.
Rodriquez had taken a night class in twentieth-century history in college, but it had left him more confused than anything else. He’d always been told that France and England declared war on Germany because Hitler invaded Poland. But the problem with that explanation was that the Russians had invaded Poland at the same time, in alliance with the Nazis. The Russians had also invaded Finland, although nobody declared war on the Russians. And when the war was supposed to be over, the Russians were still in Poland-and a hell of a lot of other places, too. So it seemed to Rodriguez that if the war had been fought to free Eastern Europe from invaders, then the whole thing had been a failure. Sure, it had gotten rid of the Nazis. But the Nazis had always been a lot more interested in fighting the Communists than they were the Western Allies-which was why they’d let the Brits escape at Dunkirk, and why they kept resisting Roosevelt’s repeated efforts to drag them into a war with the States. Only, for some reason, people seemed to forget that.
Rodriguez was breathing hard now, legs pumping as he sprinted down a quiet lane, his wet T-shirt sticking to his back despite the chill. He passed a park with a statue of Lenin staring straight ahead, as if he could see all the way back to Moscow, and he found himself wondering what would have happened if the West had just let the two motherfuckers fight it out. Hitler and Stalin. Nazis and Commies. He had a feeling the world would look a lot different today.
He slowed to a walk as he neared the house, then did a hundred push-ups and a hundred crunches in the yard before heading inside.
“Heard from our guy in Berlin yet?” he asked Salinger as he let the kitchen door slam behind him.
“Nothing yet.”
Rodriguez grabbed a liter of water and downed it in one long pull. “Something’s gone wrong.”
“Could just be a delay.”
Rodriguez shook his head. After years of running operations, he’d learned to trust his gut. “Get onto our source at Aeroflot.”
Salinger tapped at his computer for a few minutes, then looked up. “The representative from Langley checked in for his flight to Kaliningrad twenty minutes ago.”
“Fuck.” Rodriguez glanced across the kitchen to where the other men were clustered around a big oak table and eating breakfast out of takeout containers from a local inn. “Dixon, you and Salinger come with me. We’ll get the son of a bitch when he lands.”