whispered a prayer that he was heading toward somebody else. That’s the thing about Siberian prisons. After a while, you get pretty damned selfish. They’re pretty much dog-eat-dog places.
Every morning the guards came through the barracks and dragged out the corpses of poor buggers who had died of disease, or malnutrition, or had frozen to death in their sleep. And this being a prison, there were a few murders every week as well. We were each issued a single, threadbare wool blanket that had been used by generations of other prisoners. The trick was to try to collect two or three of them, so the multiple layers could protect you from the cold. The barracks were unheated, so in the morning you’d awaken covered by a layer of frost, so damned stiff you could barely climb out of bed. Your blanket would be gone, and you’d have to go through the rest of the barracks and find the culprit, and then you’d have to fight to get it back, because without it, you wouldn’t last long. The training I’d had in the outfit was the only thing that saved me. After I beat up four or five of the biggest badasses in the barracks, nobody wanted to go near my blanket.
Suddenly Igor was right behind me, and I tensed for the inevitable assault. What would it be? A rifle butt in the kidneys or the kick on my backside that would send me flying? Nothing happened. I slowly turned around and faced him. He hooked a finger. I put down my shovel and followed him like an obedient puppy, coughing and hacking the whole way, because I seemed to have caught a very nasty cold.
We ended up at the headquarters, one of only two buildings at Camp 18 that had wood-burning stoves. The second we walked inside I felt like my skin had caught on fire. I hadn’t been near heat in months, and the sudden sensation burned.
Three or four senior guards were huddled around a stove in the corner, and they all looked up when I entered. One got a pissed-off look and climbed off his stool.
“You are Drummond, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised to hear English. None of the other guards spoke English.
He pointed a hand toward a doorway. “You will go in there and take shower.”
I didn’t ask him why, because I’d been trained to comply immediately with every instruction. Given that it was me, it had taken a bit longer than normal to learn that lesson, and I had the scars to prove it.
I nearly passed out in the shower, my first in over five months. There was a small bar of coarse, sandy soap, and it took a lot of hard scrubbing to get all the dirt and grime off my body. I was actually bleeding in a few places, but what did I care?
I slipped back into my ratty, smelly clothes and walked out ten minutes later. The guards were all huddled around the stove again. The same guard got up, snapped cuffs on my wrists, then led me outside to a small truck with big tires. We climbed in the back and left. After about an hour, the truck stopped and we climbed out at an airfield, the same one I’d landed at five months earlier. Was it really only five months before? A big military Tupelov airplane was idling on the tarmac, and the guard led me stumbling toward the plane.
We took off a few minutes later, and while it was a long flight, I don’t remember much of it, because I was floating in and out of la-la land. I’d wake up every few minutes hacking and coughing, and it dawned on me that it wasn’t a cold but pneumonia. I hadn’t recognized the chills and fever before because I was always chilly and shivering anyway.
We landed at a military airport I didn’t recognize and left the plane for a military sedan. I had no idea what was going on nor did I ask. Russian prisons teach you that, too. Don’t ask questions: You might not like the way the answer’s delivered.
We drove into a big city I suspected was Moscow. Spring had made more of a dent here. At least there was no snow on the ground. I hadn’t seen bare earth since I left.
We pulled to a stop in front of a big building that looked like it had once been a former palace of some sort. I climbed out of the sedan, but not until the guard ordered me to, because, like I said earlier, I’d been thoroughly housebroken. We entered the building and went up two flights of stairs. The guard walked ahead of me and opened a pair of double doors, then indicated with an arm wave that I was to enter.
The heat from the building gave me that uncomfortable burning sensation again. Four people were gathered around a long table. On one side sat Harold Johnson, my old friend from the CIA, and General Clapper, my old boss. On the other sat Viktor Yurichenko and an older man I didn’t recognize.
Johnson and Clapper looked up when I entered. Clapper’s eyes popped open, because I’d changed somewhat since the last time we saw each other. I was skinnier, for one thing. Much skinnier. I’d guess I’d lost at least thirty pounds, and I wasn’t heavy to begin with. I looked like a dazed bird that had forgotten to head south for the winter and paid dearly for it. For a second thing, like all Camp 18 prisoners, my head was shaved to the skin. For a third thing, being continuously outdoors in subzero temperatures isn’t recommended by dermatologists. I had cold sores on my lips and my skin had cracked open in places, and the vitamin deficiency hindered the healing process. Finally, the steady beatings meant I was always sporting a black eye, or swollen lips, or a fresh bruise here and there.
“Jesus, Sean!” Clapper yelled. “What the hell have these bastards done to you?”
Johnson peered across the table at Yurichenko. “Viktor, this is unacceptable.”
Yurichenko finally turned and looked at me also. “Russian prisons are harsh places, Harold. I don’t make them this way.”
Johnson nodded back, then he turned and looked at me again. “Sean, your boss and I are here to try to negotiate your release. This is a very delicate matter. You’re being charged with three counts of murder and espionage. Those are serious crimes.”
I stood perfectly still. The espionage charge was obviously the most problematic. I had helped get Alexi out of Russia-guilty as charged. The three counts of murder baffled me until I realized this had to do with me killing the three hit men who tried to take me out. Very clever.
“That’s right, Sean,” Clapper quickly added. “The other gentleman here is the equivalent of a Russian superior court judge. He can take your case to the president to arrange a pardon, or he can decide there’s not enough evidence to have a trial.”
Well, wasn’t that interesting? I’d been in prison over five months, and now they were considering a trial. I stood mute, sensing I really had no role in this proceeding, that a great deal of discussion had already occurred, and I sure as hell didn’t want to harm the chances of success. I wouldn’t be standing here if they didn’t have something cooked up.
Yurichenko was giving me his grandfatherly smile, the one intended to warm the cockles of your heart. I felt a chill. I dreamed of getting my hands around his neck and choking the bastard to death.
Johnson ignored me and turned back to face Viktor, evidently continuing the conversation I interrupted when I came in. “The point is, Viktor, our President would consider it a very big favor if you would drop this. He asked me to emphasize how very beneficial this would be for both sides.”
Yurichenko was shaking his head, but mildly, like he wasn’t quite sure how that logic worked. “But, Harold, you have nothing to trade. Please forgive me for being selfish, but I must see some quid pro quo. We are both pros in this game. We both know how it works. I cannot give you something for nothing.”
“And do you have something in mind?”
“A simple trade-in-kind would be ample. I want Alexi back. Return him, and you can have Drummond.”
Johnson suddenly stared down at the tabletop, as though what he was about to say was very difficult. “We can’t do that. It’s not even negotiable. Besides, there’s a bit of a problem here.”
“And what would that be?”
“Before he came over here, Drummond made some tapes. They’re embarrassing for both of us, but they’re much more embarrassing and problematic for you. If those tapes get out, our relations would be grievously wounded. All these areas where we’re cooperating-the missile reduction pact, NATO participation for Russia-it would all go up in smoke.”
Viktor leaned back in his chair, obviously surprised. “Tapes? What is on these tapes?”
“The whole thing,” Johnson grimly admitted, appearing greatly pained.
Yurichenko looked over at me. His eyes roved from my shoes to the bald tip of my skull. I was a most unlikely-looking suspect to have found a way to outsmart him. He seemed to be thinking furiously about how to handle this.
He asked Johnson, “And you really think these tapes would be a problem?”
Which actually was a clever way of saying, “Hey, I’m not really buying this. And you better not be bluffing or Drummond over there will think he just spent five months vacationing on the Riviera compared to what I’ll do to him.”
