“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
“What’s
“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
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.
34
Rubens pushed back in his office chair, listening as his stereo played the first act of
On his desk were two code-word classified, eyes-only papers. The reports were so secret that each one of
