Deep Black

33

Dean felt her moving toward him even before he heard her. He kept his face down on the bed, turned away from her.

For a second he let himself fantasize that she was coming to slip into bed with him. His desire surprised him, not least of all because he knew she wasn’t coming to slip in beside him.

He opened his right eye, the one closest to the pillow. The lights were still on and the sun shone through the nearby window.

She touched the end of the bed.

“Can’t resist me, huh?” he said. He pulled himself up.

Instead of a torrid comeback there was a shriek. A maid stood near the end of the bed, her face blanched in surprise. A stream of Russian — the tone showed it was not necessarily an apology — left her mouth as she backed from the room.

Lia was gone. The cushions from the seats and the curtains from the windows were piled next to him on the bed, which might have explained why the maid didn’t realize he was there. Light streamed through the windows; it was now past eight o’clock, according to his watch.

Lia had taken all their gear from the room. She didn’t answer when he knocked on the other door. Unsure what else to do, Dean walked out to the lobby area, slowly enough so the clerk could stop him if there was a message but, on the other hand, not trying to look as if he were expecting one. He went outside; the truck was gone.

A small building next to the motel looked like a restaurant. Inside, Dean took a place at a small table; the rest of the room was empty. The woman who came out from the back frowned when she saw him. Somewhere in her rapid-fire greeting he thought he heard a word similar to coffee, and so he said, “Da.” This elicited more words, which sounded like questions. Dean nodded and said “Da” again, but apparently this didn’t suffice as an answer.

“I’m just a dumb American,” he told her, shrugging. “Bring me what you got.”

The woman didn’t laugh, but her answer didn’t seem particularly belligerent, either. She tried her question again, this time speaking very slowly.

Dean nodded, having no clue what he was agreeing to.

The woman shook her head, then retreated into the back.

“Saying you’re a dumb American rarely works, because they figure it’s pretty much a given. You know what I’m saying?”

Dean slid around in his chair, trying not to look surprised as Karr walked over with his big grin and pulled over a chair from a nearby table.

“When did you get here?” Dean asked.

“Couple of hours ago.” As if to emphasize that he’d had little sleep, Karr rubbed his eyes with the middle finger of each hand. It looked like a not-so-subtle obscene gesture, the kind kids might make to a teacher soon after learning the significance of the middle finger. “Some shit irritated my eye,” said Karr. “Think the damn eye duct’s clogged or something.”

“Looks red.”

“Yeah. Have to find something to throw in it. I’d go to a doctor, but all they’d offer is vodka.”

“Where’s Lia?”

“I told her to call the Art Room and see what the hell’s going on. Fashona’s doing some business with the helicopter. Let’s have some breakfast.”

The woman reappeared with Dean’s order — a shallow bowl of fish covered with a thick, oily white liquid. Karr choked back a laugh, then began conversing with the woman. She frowned but soon retreated into the back, leaving the dish.

“What is this?” Dean asked.

“Got me. I just ordered some potatoes and chay. We can share.”

“What’s chay?”

“Tea.”

The woman soon appeared pushing a cart with a monstrous bizarre-looking urn made of steel. She fussed quite a bit with large glass cups, placing them before Karr and Dean and adjusting small saucers of jam next to each one. Then she fetched a tin teapot from the bottom of her cart and poured water from the spigot of the urn. She then retreated into the back.

“She getting us bread?” Dean asked.

“No, the jelly’s for the tea.”

“The tea?”

“This is a high-class place,” said Karr. He gestured at the urn. “Samovar and everything.”

The woman soon returned with a pitcher. She poured small amounts of dark tea into the glass cups, then took more water from the samovar and added it to the cups.

“The pelmeni is probably really good here,” said Karr, who added about half the jelly to his tea. “But I’m not all that hungry. Pelmeni—they’re dumplings. Try ’em with vinegar sometime. Blow out your taste buds.”

Karr could’ve been a college kid talking about the local diner. Hell, he looked like he was in high school, with his golden hair and offhand smile.

“You’re pretty good with Russian,” Dean said.

“Nah. I screw up the accents. Because of my mother. She was Russian.”

“Blond Russian?” asked Dean.

“My dad’s Norwegian.” A big Karr grin. “Lia’s actually better than me. Don’t tell her I said that, though. Go to her head.”

“She wouldn’t believe it if I did.”

“Sure she would. She’s got the hots for you. Princess is in looooove.”

“Fuck you, too.”

“I’m not busting your balls. She does.”

Dean shook his head. Karr really was a kid, still raw, still jokey, not sure where the line was between being serious and goofing around.

When Dean was Karr’s age, he’d known the line. He had to. He spent his days pushing through jungle as thick as a Persian rug. His life was stark and simple, focused on an uncomplicated goal — kill a specified Vietcong operative or officer, expected to be at a specific place and a specific time.

Of course, those specifics usually turned out to be fiction. The only thing you could really count on was fear. It boiled in the middle of your chest and came out in your piss and sweat; it kept you from sleeping and then made you sleep too well. At twenty, Charlie Dean was an old man in Vietnam. He’d grown considerably younger since.

Dean tried the tea without sweetening it. It was very hot and bitter, but the caffeine had an immediate effect. He pushed his fish dish to the very edge of the table, waiting to share Karr’s potatoes.

The door opened, and Fashona came in, his face creased downward in a deep frown.

“Problems,” said the helicopter pilot.

“Sit down,” said Karr, pulling over a chair. “Have some mud.”

“Nah.”

But Karr’s eyes seemed to cast a spell over Fashona, and he sank down just as the Russian appeared with a large platter of potatoes. They weren’t the home fries Dean had expected. Rather, they seemed to have been boiled in some sort of thick white sauce. It tasted something like mayonnaise, slightly acidic. Probably an acquired taste, thought Dean, who was nonetheless so hungry he quickly ate about half the plate.

“Problem getting fuel for the Hind?” Karr asked Fashona.

“Nah, easy. That Helix came from a Marine base, and they want us to check it out. Lia’s still getting the whole story.” Fashona stopped as the woman reappeared with a teacup and a large round of very black bread. The table shook as she cut through the bread, which proved to be a country rye — tough on the teeth, Dean thought, though Karr raved about it.

A half hour later, Lia still hadn’t appeared. Karr got up, taking a few bills from his pocket without bothering to wait for a check.

“More than enough, don’t worry,” he told the others, waving to the woman and bowing as he told her the food had been wonderful.

They found Lia in the truck, bent over her handheld and scowling. Dean watched her as Karr opened the driver’s side door and leaned in.

“What the fuck are Marines doing in Siberia?” Karr asked.

“The Art Room doesn’t have a fucking clue.” She glanced at the others, her eyes holding Dean’s for half a second. “They think Stephen Martin is in there.”

“Who?”

“Wave Three. The operator in the plane.”

“No way,” said Karr. He laughed.

“No shit.”

“Well, I guess we can have a look. Can we get the helicopter down near there without the Marines shooting us down?”

“We have five and a half hours. Then we have to leave for Moscow,” said Lia.

“Moscow? You kidding?”

“No. Rubens gave the order.” She held up the small computer to him. “According to Rockman, Martin is somewhere at the top left corner. There are two buildings there. They think they’re either labs or prisons, maybe both. They might also be barracks.”

“Good thing they narrowed it down.” Karr handed the computer back to her, then took his out from his pocket. He held it near hers, obviously getting a download via the infrared connection. “They’re sure it’s Martin?”

“They heard him praying and they got a voice match. I think Rubens is skeptical, though.”

Karr turned serious for a moment. “Five hours isn’t going to give us enough time to get him.”

“They don’t want us to get him. They want us to go to Moscow.”

“Ah.”

“Ah yourself.”

“Go pay off the hotel. I’ll meet you all back at the helicopter.”

“Where you going?” Dean asked.

“To tell the boss to eat shit,” said Karr, starting the engine. He smiled, then threw the truck into reverse.