Paradox Hour (25 page)

He shook his head, inwardly, because it would take too much effort and hurt too much to shake it outwardly. So I die here, painfully, in another week or two at best. In the meantime, Volkov will have already appointed someone to fill my shoes, probably that fat fool Grechenko. He was an accountant, good with numbers, but with no real intuition. He can tell Volkov how much and how many, but never why. His reports will be well drafted, yet starchy and dry. He’ll never take a risk, and always play things safe. That’s Grechenko, the clerk become too fat for his own britches, and now he will try to squeeze himself into my job. Yes, that was all part of the plan, but it doesn’t make this any easier at the moment. It’s not his fat ass in this chair—it’s mine.

He could think of that no longer. The door opening brought relief with the thought that Sergeant Grilikov was back again this morning, but the footfalls on the floor behind him were not heavy. He could feel someone there, a shadow darkening his shoulder, then he started with a sudden touch, thinking Grilikov was going to position his head and box his ears again for his morning greeting.

To his great surprise, the touch was soft, lingering, comforting. He slowly turned his head, wincing with the pain and squinting at the garish light. There stood a tall, slim woman, with long curls of brunette hair, almond eyes, and a face any man would call beautiful. The woman moved, with silky softness, coming round to stand before him. She was dressed in a plain brown dress, and tan blouse, with an army blazer over it, and the rank and insignia of a Major. In her hand she held a brown leather bag, and now she stooped down, her eyes always on his as she opened the bag. They were eyes a man could drown himself in, and she gave him a warm smile.

It was a medical bag, and the woman was a nurse. For the next half hour she cleaned his face, and then tended to his painful right arm. It took several swigs of good vodka, but Kymchek knew this pain was a vital prerequisite to his healing, if he ever could. At times, when she leaned close, her scent was captivating, like violets in summer, and her blouse was conveniently loose on her ample chest to allow him a glimpse of what lay beneath that plain brown uniform.

When she had bandaged his face and secured his arm in a splint, she just walked slowly across the room, sitting quietly in a plain wood chair, her skirt riding a little above the knee, when she crossed her legs, ever so invitingly. Then the door opened, and this time it was Karpov.

“Good morning, Kymchek. I trust you were able to get some sleep, in spite of the dogs and that light bulb there.” He tapped the hanging bulb, setting it to move, pendulum like, and creating a strange effect as the light fled from the woman, then returned. She seemed to recede into shadows, appearing again, angel-like, her dark eyes always on his, her face always pleasant, smiling, promising.

“I see you have met Major Yana, as we call her. Grilikov is still having his breakfast, and none too happy that we were out of sausages until the next train. He’ll be here shortly, and probably in a very bad mood. But before that, I thought I would check on you and see if you have given any thought to our previous discussion.”

Kymchek blinked as the light slowly settled, leaving most of the Major wreathed in shadow, except those long, long, legs. He knew what was happening now, first the gruel, then the honey. It was nothing unexpected.

“Well then,” said Karpov. “What shall it be, Kymchek? You can have it either way, Grilikov with his bad temper, big fists in your face again, and then more long nights with the dogs. We’ll feed you, because you know too damn much to simply let you die here. Then we’ll have to let Grilikov get serious to get the answers to a lot of the questions you know will be coming your way. He has a fetish for very sharp knives, and I’m told he starts with fingers and toes, just for openers. It won’t be pleasant, you know that, and it won’t be brief. Eventually you will tell us what we want to know, but that will be a long, painful process, and the questions may never end. Understand?”

Now Karpov stepped into the light again, his uniform immaculate, boots shined, hand resting on a the pistol in his side holster. The door opened and another man came in, stepping to Karpov’s side, hands folded behind him, his uniform equally smart and dressed out. He was holding a small bundle, and a pair of military boots. Kymchek recognized him through bleary, bandaged eyes. It was Tyrenkov, Karpov’s own master of intelligence and security. The two men had been rivals for some years now, each one trying to out-maneuver the other to get the best information. They were as different as yin and yang, Kymchek fair skinned, with short cropped grey hair and pale blue eyes, Tyrenkov dark haired, steely lean, the light of his quick mind seeming to glow his eyes. They were fire and ice, yet both grimly calculating in their own way, and with devious intelligence.

“You know this man?” asked Karpov. “Of course you do. Well he is here to welcome you to our side of the game, if you so choose. You will be working directly with Tyrenkov, and together you will make an unbeatable intelligence team. See those boots he is holding? The bundle there is a uniform—with the rank of Major General in the Free Siberian Army. It’s yours. Step into those boots and stand with us. This war is only beginning, and there is much you have to learn about what will soon happen to our dear Mother Russia. Yes, even you, the man who knows everything. Well, you will soon learn that is not the case.”

Karpov was pacing now. “I need you, Kymchek. I need your mind, your skills, your competence. I would embrace you as a friend here, if you so choose. As I have said, you will have rank, the power and privilege that comes with it, and the pleasures. Yes, Major Yana there will gladly tend to more than that broken arm, whenever you desire, and there are a hundred others just like her. So face the reality here, the information you have will come to us one way or another. I would prefer to sit with you over a good meal and discuss things like a gentlemen. We have plans to make, and battles to fight. Join us.”

The logic of Karpov’s appeal was hard. “Together with Tyrenkov, we can settle the matter of Ivan Volkov once and for all, “ he said. “He’s an aberration, a blight in history, and an insult. Curse that man for shaking hands with Hitler, and curse him for raising his hand against his brothers, and shedding Russian blood so wantonly in this hour of our greatest need. I’m going to destroy him, just like I destroyed his damn flagship out there, one way or another. That is inevitable. So the choice before you now is very simple. Do you hold with him, Kymchek? Is that the kind of man you will sit there and endure this shit for? What will it be, Major Yana or Sergeant Grilikov? Don’t think you’ll be a hero if you see some warped sense of virtue in being loyal to a man like Volkov. But choose otherwise, and you can be a hero—not for me, but for your country. Decide.”

The door opened again, the snarl of the dogs louder as Grilikov finally came tramping in, his hard soled boots soiled with mud. He yelled at one of the dogs over his shoulder, slamming the door as he cursed.

“Sorry, sir. Breakfast was late.”

“No bother, Sergeant. Stand there, will you?”

“Certainly sir.” The big Sergeant took his place at the edge of the light, the shadows rising up his stolid form, legs planted wide, heavy arms crossed over his chest. He was slowly rolling up his sleeves. At a nod from Karpov, Major Yana stood, and walked sinuously to the edge of the light, the same shadows fingering the curved lines of her body. They stood there, two ends of a choice that would now decide Kymchek’s future life. Tyrenkov slowly handed the bundled uniform and boots to the woman, and then stepped to Karpov’s side.

“Come now, Tyrenkov. We’re off to the officer’s dining room. I think your breakfast was late, Sergeant, because the chef was too busy preparing our meal. I’ll make that up to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good enough.” Karpov started away, with Tyrenkov in his wake, then he stopped, just short of the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Oh yes, there is a third table setting and a chair for you, Kymchek. Come over dressed in that uniform and join us, and let’s put this unfortunate incident behind us and talk about the Rodina. There is more to be healed here than that right arm of yours, and we men must do that work. Our nation stands or falls in the years ahead, and now you get a chance that comes to few—a chance to right the wrongs you have done in this world. Decide, this very hour, and join us. There will be more than Major Yana’s smile in that choice for you. History will smile on you as well.”

He turned, and stepped through the doorway. The dogs saw the door opening and were up with a snarl, but one look at Karpov and they were immediately stilled.

Kymchek never forgot that.

Across the way, Karpov sat at the breakfast table, the white linen cloth lending a pristine quality to the setting. The silver was laid out next to well folded napkins, the tea hot in the polished samovar, the smell of the blini and porridge enticing. The sausages Grilikov had been missing were here in abundance.

“That was quite a find, Tyrenkov. You are to be congratulated. What do you think Kymchek will do in this situation?”

“That’s anyone’s guess, sir. You were very persuasive. A punch in the nose and a kiss on the cheek is old hat when it comes to interrogation. Kymchek knows that, but your other arguments were very convincing.”

“He would be a fool to die here out of some misplaced and foolish loyalty to Volkov,” said Karpov. “I might expect you to do this for me, so believe me, it was not easy asking Kymchek to throw away those years he stood by Volkov. Why should he? Only to save his skin, and perhaps do what I suggested, right some wrongs, and salvage what remains of his life, his pride, his sense of being a useful man. We all want to be useful, don’t we? The information he has will be vital in the campaign ahead, but the man is also a great asset. You can use him, a very able addition to your team.”

“No question about that, sir.”

“And Tyrenkov, I also want you to know that your position as head of security and intelligence is completely secure. Don’t entertain the slightest thought that Kymchek might ever replace you. You’ve proven yourself to me many times, and I will never do what Volkov has just done here to Kymchek. The man was simply thrown to the wolves. This is why I had those dogs tethered right outside his door—a little subliminal message to that effect. Well… I wonder if the blini is getting cold. Perhaps we should begin.”

At that moment there came a quiet knock on the door. Karpov had given both the Sergeant and Major Yana very specific orders. Should Kymchek remain obstinate, or fail to choose within one half hour, the Sergeant was to come over and report this, and get Karpov’s approval to begin more intensive interrogations. Should Kymchek choose to side with the Siberian State, then Major Yana was to accompany him to the Officer’s Dining room.

“Come…” Karpov turned, wondering who he would see when that door opened, and hoping he would not have to grind Kymchek like so much meat in the days ahead. He was not disappointed.

There stood Kymchek, dressed out in the uniform and boots that had been tailored for him, his General’s cap under his good left arm, where Major Yana guided him with a smile. As much as he wanted to smile himself, Karpov maintained a well practiced decorum. He stood up, gesturing to the third place at the table, his hand extended graciously.

“General Kymchek,” said Karpov politely. “I am very glad you have chosen to dine with us this morning, very glad indeed. Every choice makes a difference in this world, and I know that in a way that few men understand. This next choice will be a little easier for you… Do you prefer honey with your tea? And will it be boiled eggs, sausage, or black bread and cold cuts?”

It was only then that Karpov allowed himself a smile, not to taunt the man, but to welcome him. Kymchek never forgot that either. There was another side of this man, though he knew Karpov had good reason to be accommodating here.

I hope I didn’t make this look too easy, thought Kymchek. Volkov was very insistent about that, and I told him that two or three days, and a good beating, would be the norm. But Karpov was certainly eager to get me here to his table. So here I am, you conniving little bastard. Did you really think I would turn so easily? Yes, the walk over here with Major Yana cradling that wounded arm of mine was much to be preferred over Grilikov breaking the other one. But that had little to do with anything. As you said yourself, Volkov is an aberration, but so are you—a little weed that needs plucking out, and I’ve been sent to till the garden. So I’ll play your game now, and tell you anything you might care to know. Then, one day, when the time is right, I’ll find a way to do what we came here to do in the first place, and make an end of your little theater on the taiga.

Tonight he would consider how best to contact his operatives in Ilanskiy, and discretely have them get a message to Volkov, telling him all was well, and everything was going exactly as they had planned it.

Part VIII

Peake’s Deep

“Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it again. Give portions to seven, yes to eight, for you do not know what disaster may come upon the land… Sow your seed in the morning, and at evening let not your hands be idle, for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well.”

―
Ecclesiastes 11:1-6

Chapter 22

Engineering
Chief Dobrynin was the next man to hear it, the same deep disturbance in the sound field that Tasarov had heard earlier. The Chief’s ears were fine tuned to the nuances of the ship, every squeak and rumble and grind of the turbines and engines, the hum of the reactors, the symphony of the entire machine itself as
Kirov
cut its way into the Atlantic. He had been reviewing service readouts from the main propulsion system, pleased that the reactors had been holding up very well, in spite of long hours at high speed. As he folded the file closed, he heard something that prompted him to incline his head, listening…