Read Someone Else's War: A Novel of Russia and America Page 78

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  Olivia was in a holding cell. Her possessions had been inventoried and taken away. She had then been searched and exchanged her clothing for a loose prison uniform and felt slippers. Except for the arresting officer, Colonel Zhuralev, and his detail, she had been handled exclusively by women guards. She was addressed as Doctor and in the formal manner. Olivia was formal and polite to her guards. No need to complicate anything.

  The cell was not designed to cause pain. There was light from a caged bulb and a narrow cot that took half the cell. She could pace back and forth beside the cot. The temperature was comfortable, there was water and a toilet, which she had used, purging herself of what little remained in her. She’d had nothing to eat but some bread the night before. This morning she could have managed nothing and so she h

  ad not tried. Now she was left alone, neither hungry nor in pain, to ponder the greatest mistake of her life.

  Trying to offer value one last time to her country. Trying to be herself in a country that wanted neither her nor her work. Trying to be an American.

  So far, she had been treated correctly, as she had been since her first hour in Russia. How long that correct treatment would last, she could not know. She knew that if it came to torture, it was over. They would no longer want truth. They, whoever they might be, would then want confessions, the implication of others, assent to any ludicrous tale they might concoct for whatever purposes they might hold. Idly, she wondered what the compensation package of an FSB torturer amounted to, whether there was an FSB budget line item for torturers, or whether it was folded into some other category. Special projects, perhaps. Or maybe, the department of subhuman resources.

  This was not a situation that her CIA handler or case officer might get her out of. She had no handler, no case officer and although it was probable that her government knew something about her, they would probably regard her as an inconvenience, a freak, a traitor. But nothing more. She was not one of theirs. They might not even care to trade for her. Why should they? Her fate would be determined by Russians and Russians only.

  But she hadn’t come to Russia to die. She’d come to Russia to live and do work that needed to be done, and she was not yet done with either her work or her life. Pain would be no obstacle. The thought made her newly grateful for the serious and permanent injuries she had sustained in the crash of that Cessna. There had been a time when she couldn’t imagine offering gratitude for pain: for the injuries, the rehab, the life afterwards when nothing worked as it should.

  Then there was her boxing coach and sparring partner.

  She might call Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Alexandrovich Malinovsky that. With more justice, she might call him her brother, although whether he might still want her as a sister when he learned…that was a question whose probable answer she could not bear to consider.

  “You know how to endure pain,” he’d told her. “That’s good.” In fact, learning to bear pain had saved her sanity. “But you do not know how to use pain. That’s better. Time you learned how.”

  Enduring punishment was not the same thing as enduring pain. Especially when the point of enduring punishment was to set your opponent up so you could administer punishment to him.

  Valentina, who had never boxed, whose life was built around creation, had understood that very well.

  Beloved General.

  Brother Vladimir.

  Be with me now. Even if you hate me as you should.

  Let me not wrong you. Not to save myself.

  Worse than the prospect of pain or damage was the idea of being used against Russians who had done nothing wrong. Once upon a time, in living memory, her name on that CIA memo would have meant the torture and liquidation of all who had known her, helped her, worked with her, loved her. She would have been forced to implicate them, if she were unable to find a way to die. She blessed Suslov and his dead father for his advice there. Just put out your tongue and bite down hard. Smash your lower jaw into a table top or your skull into a wall or anything to get it done. That was always available. And in the end, the only thing that mattered was to keep faith. Only she should suffer for her stupidity.

  Play it straight, Olivia. Keep it simple and play it straight.