***
The next day, Sergeant Gumarov, who would soon enough be Warrant Officer Gumarov, taking pains to look like one more non-descript, uncared-for Russian draftee, traded with the Chechens for a fine young sheep, some oranges, and red wine. In return, he offered “salted” ammunition, five hundred rounds laced with a few that would rupture the chamber and badly injure, if not kill, the shooter. The Chechens seemed delighted and inquired if Gumarov had any more merchandise to trade. Gumarov assured them that, when he had it, they would know.
Olivia, growling, her back and pelvis an aching wreck and her bandaged arm a dull fire, moving very carefully indeed, confiscated the lamb, the wine, and the oranges. She would cook. The butchered and trimmed body went into a large pot, along with the wine, some cooking oil, and orange juice pressed from the oranges, several handfuls of chopped garlic, a rather smaller quantity of toasted cumin and red peppers, some salt and then, as an afterthought, the squeezed orange halves. The pot was covered and the whole thing went into her field lab, where it stayed until the morning of the third day after Simonov’s death, the first of the feast days for Orthodox dead.
Major Malinovsky arrived with four of his men. The pot made its way from her lab into a slow oven, uncovered, the orange halves piled atop the meat. It was also their final day with the brigade, hers and Suslov’s. The change of command ceremony would be simple, held indoors, so the men need not prepare for anything fancy or interrupt their routines. Suslov would be promoted immediately after, also indoors. Olivia would not attend the change of command. She would, however, stand beside Suslov as some local general—they both would have preferred Trimenko, but he was not available—administered the oath and she pinned on his new insignia of rank.
A hell of a party, Olivia thought as she tended to the lamb. Multi-purpose. Memorial for some, hail and farewell for others, promotion for one. Then goodbye to all. All save one. No. All save two, she thought, looking at Malinovsky’s broad back as he wandered off with his men.
The party began at no particular time. But it began. Because not to drink to the dead as Russians did would have been an unforgivable insult, Olivia drank vodka in the Russian manner and joined in the telling of Simonov stories. Warrant Officer Simonov’s security team was at the party, as were a number of his friends, including, of all persons, Misha. They smiled at each other in remembrance.
Afterwards, Olivia and Suslov sat close together, not touching, but the intimacy between them was very obvious. Malinovsky couldn’t help but offer them a satisfied smile. “Now everything is as it should be with you and the Kombrig,” he said, looking at Suslov.
“Former Kombrig,” Suslov said quietly.
“Already?”
“Yes. A simple ceremony.”
“One down, two to go,” Malinovsky answered.
“Two?” Olivia asked.
“Of course.” The Kombrig’s promotion and…”
“And what?”
“If I said, a wedding ceremony, sister?”
“If you said that, you’d regret ever teaching me to box,” Olivia said, turning her deepest red.
Very gently, Malinovsky put one massive arm around her shoulders. “Not quite. But remember when you first started to learn to box? Whose equipment do you think I scrounged for you? The Kombrig’s, of course. There was from the beginning something very, very special between you and as someone who was suffering then, I wanted that for you both.”
“And what do you want for yourself?”
He smiled peacefully. “I am a hopeful man. I’ll tell you this. She ought not to be Jewish. Or Christian. Or Muslim.”
“How about Mormon?”
“I might say yes, if I knew what a Mormon was.”
“They don’t drink.”
“Then I say no. I want a heretic.”
“A heretic of which faith?”
“Of fucking all of them. Nevertheless,” he went on, determined to finish, “we all know everything is as it should be between you and the Kombrig. Don’t you two go doing anything stupid like screwing in an infantry carrier, just to prove it to us.”
“Easy, my friend,” Suslov said, touching Malinovsky gently. The major grinned in acceptance, started to say something, then decided that any future statements would have to await alcohol-induced incoherence and justification.
The party went on. The living had done well. The officers especially. Major Malinovsky was headed to the Frunze Academy, then battalion command of his own. Suslov knew that Voroshilov was a passport to the highest positions, and that he was slated for command of an Airborne division after graduation. Whatever happened in the future and however harsh the past had been, the simplicity and clarity of the time he had had with these people would not come again. These hours were to be cherished. Still, he could not turn off his concern.
“How much have you got in this city?” Suslov asked Olivia.
Olivia understood. “And environs? I’ve put in just about everything and everyone I can spare, while maintaining both an emergency reserve and enough of an archive that if the roof ever falls in, other people can step in and take over. All those Arabs in that compound are surely a sign of things to come.”
“GRU headquarters agrees with everything we’re saying,” Malinovsky said. Most of the Arabs had committed suicide to avoid capture. The prisoners had tended to be Chechen. “What you Americans were thinking in Afghanistan when you armed them, I don’t know. The Muslims are going to be more trouble to you than they were ever worth.”
“But you presume we thought further than defeating the Soviet Union.” Olivia said. “I can assure you we did not.”
“We?” another man, perhaps not drunk on vodka yet clearly drunk on fury, interjected.
Kristinich had never socialized with the other officers, much less the enlisted, even though in Spetsnaz units, relationships between and across ranks were much closer than in regular units. That had been more his choice than theirs. Suslov had found him useful, after all, and he would not ostracize Kristinich for doing what he tolerated, even authorized. But Kristinich was what he was and he was neither liked nor respected for it.
Now all the soldiers were looking at him, he knew, wondering who had let him in, or more to the point, who had let him out of the box they all wanted him in. But Kristinich was beyond noticing or caring. Olivia’s existence, from the beginning an affront, was now to him a personal humiliation. It was intolerable that they treated this woman like a sister, an older, wiser sister, whilst scorning him. It was intolerable that this woman, this American Zhid, should be more respected than he was. Very well. Kristinich understood that in the old days, respect was unnecessary, so long as hatred was accompanied by fear. Kristinich missed the old days, those few he’d personally experienced and the many that had come before him.
He wanted her fear.
“Yes, we, Major Kristinich,” Olivia said calmly. “I have never forgotten that I am an American and even if I should ever wish to, I have people like you to remind me.”
Suslov and Malinovsky looked at each other, then Suslov quietly withdrew a meter or two, saying nothing. He would intervene only if it looked like it was getting out of hand. Olivia and Malinovsky exchanged a look. Remember what I taught you. She understood. The soldiers began to form a loose ring around Olivia and Kristinich, and she realized she was not alone.
“Well then, you have reminded me that I’d like a word with you.”
“Speak, then.”
“In private,” he demanded.
“Here will be fine. If you want a private word with someone, you don’t publicly demand it.”
“In private,” he tried to insist.
“No need. The days when that request would terrify anyone are gone. Anyway, we’re all mischpocha.”
“What?” he challenged her.
“That’s Yiddish for family. You don’t speak Yiddish, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I’m a Russian,” he snapped.
“So is
Major Malinovsky, but he speaks a little Yiddish.”
Kristinich grew angrier. He had meant for his demand to frighten her; he had no idea what he might have said to her, had she agreed. And now he was surrounded. He couldn’t hit her. She wasn’t a prisoner and no one would restrain her for him. More likely, they would restrain him, and he feared that. If he hit her, she’d hit back and he knew that in a fair fight, he was not remotely a match for her. He feared that even more.
“Well, you’re very smart, as your successes here attest. I have read your dossier, though, as well as observing your accomplishments here. It appears that you have significant experience with fire.”
“That is true, Major. I have mastered it twice. Once in America and once here.”
“Perhaps you may have a third opportunity.”
“Would you care to be more specific?”
“No, I would not. For now. Let us just say that fire belongs to my realm, not yours. Of course, unlike me, you work with things that cannot feel fire or anything else. Not humans with wills of their own.”
“I know a little about that.”
“Perhaps, Doctor. And now you’re headed back to Moscow, taking your successes with you. Of course, I am headed back to Moscow too, to a position of far greater responsibility.”
“Mazel tov, Major. Congratulations. Had you told us, we might have added your name to our list of those whose successes we celebrate. Or maybe not. Will you also be promoted? All my friends are being promoted, you know.”
“That will come in time. I’m certain that your going back to Moscow permanently will make it easier for you to communicate with your American and Israeli masters.”
The ring of troops slowly started to tighten.
“I have no masters, neither Israeli nor American. I work for the Russian Federation as a free woman and I am proud to do so.” Her tone was very cool and civilized. Everyone was armed and everyone had been drinking, and she wanted none of them to end up in prison or worse for defending her when she didn’t need their defense.
Kristinich felt his face begin to redden as no response came to him. As she had intended, no doubt. “Well, then, Doctor, you must be sad to be giving up some of the intimacies you’ve shared with the men.”
“I am. I’ve met many wonderful men who have given me many cherished memories. I am honored to have known them and shared their lives a little.”
“No doubt, although I do question the desirability of many of them.” Someone snickered behind him. He half turned, saw no one intimidated by his glance, then turned back. “Tell me,” he demanded, “how many desirable men do you think there are in Moscow?”
“One fewer than you do, Major.”
There were a few amazed giggles, then more snickers. Slowly, they built to a crescendo of laughter as the troops realized what she’d said.
“I’ll remember you,” Kristinich spat.
“Please do. I’m already very well known. And to quote a wise American, ‘I’ve got friends I haven’t even met yet.’”
Red-faced with impotent fury, Kristinich spun around, shoved several soldiers out of his way, and stalked off, laughter trailing him. No one hit him. No one shot him. They let him go.
“Well done,” Malinovsky told her quietly. “Who was that wise American?”
Olivia shrugged. “Will Rogers? Ronald Reagan? Walter Cronkite? I don’t know. We Americans have proverbs for everything.”
“What proverbs should we apply to you?”
Olivia smiled. “I’ll let you know.”
“No doubt,” Malinovsky concluded. “Come with me, please. We’ve got a ceremony or two to attend to.”
“Or two? Now?”
“Now.”
“If you think I’m going to get married…”
“I think you’re going to attend my promotion.”
Olivia gave him a bear hug and kissed him. “Mazel Tov, Colonel.”
“Thank you, sister. You, too.”
“For what?”
He calmly studied her. “For such a smart woman, you can be very dense. Come on. We must not keep the generals waiting.”