“You eaten? I got some chili on if you don’t have a squeamish stomach.”
“No, thanks. I had one of Maggie’s steaks before I came up. She told me the way. Well, almost the way. She made a slight mistake about the turn at the fork.”
Savage laughed. “No mistake, but Maggie figured if you could find the way, you must be okay. She’s alright, kind of adopted me when I moved here. Her son bought it in Nam.”
Savage stood and went to the kitchen. He brought Charles another drink and a steaming bowl of chili in a stone bowl for himself. He ate in silence, occasionally glancing at Charles who sat contentedly, warmed by the fire and Scotch, letting his gaze roam over the cabin. On one wall, some rough shelves held an impressive collection of paperback books.
Savage followed his gaze. “Passes the time,” he said. He finished eating and lit a cigarette. “What do you want to know about Owens?” he asked as he popped open another beer.
Charles shifted in his chair. “I’d like to hear about you first.” He regarded Savage with real interest. Remembering the file, he wondered how a boy from the streets of Chicago survives Vietnam and ends up on the side of a mountain. “How did this all come about?” He waved a hand around the room.
Savage smiled understandingly. “That’s what my dad wants to know. He doesn’t like this either,” he said, fingering the pony tail. “I haven’t cut it since Nam.” Shrugging he went on. “After I was discharged, I went back to Chicago. Got married, got a nothing job—probably exactly what I would have done if I hadn’t gone to Nam, but it didn’t work. Nam changed a lot of guys. Me for one. I got into some heavy dope dealing. I guess you know about that. Anyway, I made some money, got lucky on some investments and split for the open skies. Just got in my truck and drove till I saw this place. It’s about as different from Nam as you can imagine. Parked the truck, built this place and well, here I am.” He flipped his cigarette into the fire.
Charles sat back. How many were there like Mike Savage? Scarred invisibly by a war they didn’t believe in but fought nevertheless. Returned to scorn, confusion, hopelessness and broken lives. Scattered about the country, their fears locked away, dreams unfulfilled.
Charles took out a briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “Owens was only with your unit a few months, right?”
“I got something better to pack that with if you feel like it.”
“No, thanks. I tried it once with my daughter. Didn’t do anything for me,” Charles said.
Savage shrugged and took a stubby pipe from over the fireplace. He filled it from a stone jar. Lit, the pipe produced the pungent aroma of marijuana. On the floor, Pappy raised his head, sniffed the air and moved to the corner.
“Pappy doesn’t approve?”
“Naw, doesn’t like the smell, I guess. Found him when he was a puppy. Just a stray, like me.” Savage settled back in his chair and stared into the flames. “Yeah, Owens wasn’t with us long, a few months was enough. Guess you’ve done your homework,” he said, looking at Charles.
“How is it you remember him so easily?” Charles sat forward and sipped his drink.
Savage’s laugh was hollow again, like a rattle. “Remember him? Hell, I almost killed the bastard. Had him right in the sights of my M16, then just as I pulled the trigger, one of the guys jerked it away and I missed.” He laughed again. “Just think, I might have saved you a trip up here and you’d have one less defector to worry about.”
“How did it happen?”
Savage took a pull on his pipe, sucked in some air and coughed slightly. “Owens was a replacement. Nam wasn’t like your war. We didn’t train together, ship over together, fight together or come home together. Everybody shipped in one at a time. Our second in command got wasted when he stepped on a mine and what was left of him was sent home in a bag.” Savage paused, shaking his head.
“No real experience. Owens, I mean. Green as they come. A twink with bars on his shoulders. There were some nineteen year olds that were scary, man.”
Charles nodded. Child men, transformed overnight into hardened combat veterans with blank gazes, storing up memories they’d never be able to shake.
“Anyway, on this one patrol, Owens panicked under fire. He called for support mortar shelling, but he fucked up the coordinates. Our own guys were shelling us. Everyone begged him to hold off, but he wouldn’t listen. He hadn’t paid any attention in the briefings. Always had his face in some computer book. He’d been to college, he was always telling us.
“We were caught in some pretty heavy action about then, which if we got out of it was okay because that meant we could up the body count. That was the big thing in Nam, man. Body count. If it was really good we’d get a shipment of ice cream and cold cokes dropped by chopper.” His shoulders slumped and he looked at Charles with a pleading expression. “I mean what was that war about anyway?”
Charles wished there was something he could say that would penetrate what Mike Savage was feeling, even after all these years.
“Like I said,” Savage continued, “Owens thought he knew better than anyone else. A few of our guys bought it. One took a direct hit. He’d been in Nam three days. He was seventeen. Hello and goodbye war.”
Savage seemed to sink even deeper in the chair. His pipe had gone out. “We survived, the rest of us, though, I don’t know how. The mortar fire was finally straightened out and I guess Owens got his ass reamed good when we got back. Big fucking deal. We got into a light skirmish on the way. Owens was just up ahead and when I saw him there in my sights, I thought, fuck it, I just...” His voice trailed off and he stared into the fire.
Charles remained silent. The wind rustled the snow against the windows. The dying fire crackled and hissed. After a bit he said, “And Owens left after that?”
Savage sighed, returned from wherever his memories had taken him. “Yeah, not long after. They disappeared him somewhere behind the lines where he couldn’t do any harm. Lucky for him, too. Someone would have wasted him sooner or later if the VC didn’t.” He shook his head again. “And while that was going on, those assholes in Paris were arguing over the shape of the goddamn table.”
Charles had no answers. He could feel for Mike Savage, but this was not his man. The ten years of pent up emotions seething inside him threatened to spill over at any moment. Savage would not fail to kill Owens a second time if he were given the opportunity.
“What are your plans now if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just kind of cruise along up here.” His smile returned and Charles could almost see the tension visibly drain from his face. “I’ve been trying to get my brother out here, help me clear some more land, maybe build some kind of lodge. You know, catch the Canadian tourists who want to get away from it all.”
Charles smiled. Savage would be an expert at that. He put down his glass and stood to go. “Well, it’s getting late. I’d better be getting back to town. Thanks for the drinks and talk.”
“No problem, man. I hope you got what you came for. I’ll walk you back down.”
Pappy led the way as they retraced their steps down the trail to Charles’ car. He gripped the young man’s hand firmly. “I hope everything works out for you,” Charles said.
Savage nodded. “Watch it going back. Might be some ice on the road.” He started to go then turned back. “You know Owens isn’t worth the effort.”
Who knows? Charles thought as he drove away. Maybe Savage was right. He headed back to town somehow relieved that he could leave Mike Savage on his mountaintop.
Three
In the study of his comfortable dacha twenty miles outside of Moscow, Colonel Vasili Aleksevich Delnov, Second Chief Directorate KGB, was pleased; quite pleased.
He sat at a huge oak desk and let his eyes roam over the dozen color enlargements spread out before him. Pulling the heavy woolen robe closer around his massive body, naked under the robe, he pursed his lips and whistled softly as he studied the photos one at a time. His eyes, cold and
hard, flicked around the desk, now here, now there, as if playing a game with himself, willing his eyes to find some tiny discrepancy somewhere.
Without taking his eyes from the photos, he reached to his right into a carved wooden box, took out a long Cuban cigar and lit it with a small, heavy, gold Dunhill lighter. He pulled the swivel lamp down over the desk closer to the photos, at an angle that all but made the harsh glare on their glossy surface vanish.
Continuing to study the photos, he weighed the heavy lighter in his right hand, clasping and unclasping his stubby fingers over its smooth finish, bouncing it lightly in his hand. Over the years, this action with the lighter had become his own peculiar version of worry beads. Occasionally, as now, the mannerism signaled intense pleasure. The gesture was well known to his subordinates in the Seventh Department, although none of them, even Delnov’s most trusted assistant, was ever sure if the gesture meant pleasure, simple annoyance or intense anger.
He shifted the position of the photos, studying them carefully, much in the way a casting director might do, agonizing over a choice for a major role in a film with a multi-million dollar budget. But in this case, there was no decision to be made, no array of stars to choose from. The photographs were all of the same man.
The twelve photos—six profiles, six full facial shots—revealed the smooth even features of an almost handsome man. The eyes that stared back at Delnov were soft and deep brown. The lower lip protruded slightly under a narrow nose and the chin was also narrow and tapering. The dark, straight brown hair was neatly parted on one side, and although the man could be no more than thirty-five, the hair was already thinning. On the full-face shots, the expression was blank, vacant, full of resignation.
Choosing one at random, Delnov picked it up and held it closer to the light, turning his head slightly to tap ash in an onyx ashtray. As his gaze returned to the photo, he felt the familiar feeling of power that he held over this man. Impulsively, he turned the photo over and glanced at the letter neatly printed in felt tip pen.
Nodding in self-approval, he raised his eyes to the window in front of him and peered out at the white landscape. The hint of a smile curled around his mouth. The lighter bounced happily in his hand.
“Yes,” he murmured softly to himself and leaned back in his chair. His eyes returned to the photographs. They were like a magnet, giving him an inner warmth as delicious as the furry slippers holding his wriggling toes. He continued to inspect the photos for another few moments, then put out the cigar, rose and crossed the room to a small drinks cabinet. For a large man, Delnov’s movements were quick and graceful. He broke the seal on a bottle of spiced Vodka, poured out a hefty tumbler full and walked back in front of the desk to stand at the window.
He stood gazing out at the woods to the left of the dacha. The moon shone through the trees bouncing light in soft slivers through the slim birches onto the snow. He toasted his reflection in the glass and downed the vodka in one gulp, feeling the burning warmth spread through his body immediately.
“Who is he, Vasili?”
Delnov turned sharply from the window. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t heard Natalya come into the room. She was standing over the desk looking at the photographs.
A light silken robe was draped casually about her body, her bare feet wriggled in the soft carpet. She’s like a polar bear, Delnov thought. She never felt the cold. The light from the desk lamp silhouetted her body beneath the robe. Delnov took in the easy rise and fall of her breasts, the taut nipples jutting ahead stiffly, eager to be released from the confines of the fabric.
“No one important, my pet,” he said, joining her at the desk. “Do you think he’s handsome?” His gaze followed her own to the photos.
Her lower lip pouted. She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. After a moment’s hesitation, she shook her head again. The light blonde hair fell about her face haphazardly. It was damp and fresh from the bath and he could smell the faint aroma of perfumed soap on her skin.
“No,” she said finally. “Not ugly, but not handsome either.” She turned toward Delnov. “Not at all like you, Vasili. You are handsome,” she murmured throatily.
Delnov smiled, accepting the lie as she rose on her toes, grazed his cheek with her lips and blew softly in his ear. She slipped her hands inside the robe, around his body and pressed herself against him.
“But, Vasili,” she persisted. “He must be important for you to have so many pictures of him. He’s not Russian is he?” She pulled back slightly, looking into his face with that innocent expression of curiosity he had come to know so well.
Delnov’s eyes narrowed. At first he had believed her to be one of Shevchenko’s stooges, sent to ferret out information. That would have been typical of him. Shevchenko had opposed him from the outset, cautioning at first, then raising objection after objection, and finally, even threatening. But Shevchenko’s threats were empty, like those of a small boy and not to be taken seriously. And, despite Shevchenko, he had triumphed in the end, overcoming all objections and receiving approval from Andropov himself. That had silenced Shevchenko.
Still, one could never be too careful. He’d had Natalya checked out to his complete satisfaction, and even though he was reluctant to admit it, relief. She was evidently nothing more than what she appeared to be: a beautiful but largely untalented actress with a Moscow theatre company, and apparently, she was in love with Delnov.
“Nothing to worry your pretty head about, my pet,” he said soothingly.
She was quick to recognize the tone of finality in his voice. The issue was not to be taken further.
“Now, go and warm up the bed for us. I’ll join you shortly. I have a little surprise for you.”
Natalya’s eyes sparkled like a child’s. “Oh, tell me, tell me,” she squealed in delight.
“Later,” he said. “If I tell you now it won’t be a surprise.” He pushed her away gently, but let his hands linger for a moment over her supple hips. He felt a tremor of excitement rush through him as he watched her pad to the door in almost liquid motion. The robe fell open as she walked, affording him a teasing view of her smooth thighs.
She stopped at the door and looked coyly over her shoulder. “If you don’t hurry, I shall be asleep,” she said mockingly, with practiced skill.
“Then I shall just have to wake you, won’t I?” She smiled and shut the door noiselessly behind her. Delnov sighed. She was beautiful and she was his.
He turned back to the desk, and after one last glance, gathered up the photographs. Stacking them neatly, he put them in a large brown envelope, closed its clasp and returned it to a drawer in the desk. He frowned as his hand brushed against a similar envelope. It too contained photographs, three in all, also enlargements, but printed in black and white. He spread them on the desk. Unconsciously he felt for the lighter as he studied the new photos.
The light was not good, but the images were clear and unmistakable. They showed a man standing in a phone booth, staring into the lens. “Zakharov.” He spat the name and gripped the lighter tightly.
In the second photo, Zakharov was between two other men, obviously the FBI agents. Zakharov’s expression was one of resignation tinged with fear. It was a waist high shot and even there, Delnov could detect the slump of the shoulders, the sagging face, the blank stare. The third photo showed Zakharov getting into a car. The lighter felt cold in his hand as he gripped it tighter.
What was considered Zakharov’s apparent blunder had nearly ruined everything. His ingenious plan, the greatest stroke of his career, a plan that promised the highest praise from his superiors, perhaps even the Order of Lenin. Yes, that was certainly possible. All nearly, but not quite ruined. Instead, he had turned Zakharov’s arrest, exactly as planned, to his advantage, arguing it was not a disaster as Shevchenko had, but merely extra leverage, perhaps even a blessing in disguise. Delnov had not counted on such violent opposition from Shevchenko. In the end, Andropov had agreed and from that point, Delnov was
once more in command.
Of course they wanted Zakharov returned and Delnov himself would be there to greet him. He relished the thought of being a witness to Zakharov’s debriefing, his disgrace, his sentencing. A pity but sacrifices must be made. It’s too bad, he mused, that Zakharov would never know how he had advanced his own career.
He gave the Zakharov photos one final glance, returned them to their envelope which he placed in the desk drawer. He locked the drawer, poured himself another vodka and again toasted his own reflection.
The photos of Zakharov had been delivered to him only yesterday by his assistant following a meeting with the American John Trask. Obviously, Trask thought they would influence their decision to allow the verification of Owens to be made outside the Soviet Union. Perhaps they would concede, Delnov thought. Not completely, of course. Prague, or perhaps Budapest, would be equally safe. Just enough to keep the Americans convinced. No more, no less. Yes, it was all falling into place, exactly as he had engineered the plan from its inception.
He could well imagine the surprise of the Americans that Owens wanted to return and also their elation that he would be allowed to. Fools, he thought. Were he in their place, Owens would be left to rot in Siberia. But then, that’s what makes the game so interesting. The varying viewpoints, the diverse allegiances, the differing approaches. Delnov enjoyed it all. He downed the vodka. Well, enough of this for tonight.
His mind turned easily to Natalya, lingering over the vision of her waiting submissively on the huge bed, her golden hair spread out over the pillow, her breasts rising and falling, his erection pressing between their warmth ever closer to her inviting lips.
Still, he would have to oversee everything carefully. Trask was no fool and there was Fox to contend with, the old devil. Delnov chuckled. If Charles Fox was involved, however indirectly, he would have to tread with caution. He had dueled with Fox before and not always triumphantly. But of course there had been Prague. Even now Delnov savored the memory.
Extreme care must be taken during the verification period the Americans were insisting on and the actual exchange when it took place. If only they could get Zakharov first, the rest would be easy. Perhaps too easy and then all the fun would be out of it.