give up his life for the cause. These men come from towns and villages all over Chechnya. There isn’t a man that hasn’t had a family member murdered by the Russians. I don’t have to tell you, General, that if I hadn’t offered them a chance to strike at the heart of Russia, they would have deserted to fight on the ground in Chechnya.”
“And you, Georgi Alexeyevich?”
Litvanov lifted and dropped his shoulders. “What have I to lose? Tell me?” His eyes searched Zakayev’s face. “I have a photograph of my wife and children in their coffins. My cousin sent it to me.
At first I thought it was a cruel joke somebody was playing, and I wish to God it was. I had to beg for leave and even then I was granted only three days. Three days. My cousin had them buried in Sernovodsk, our ancestral village, the same as yours, General. When I got there and saw their graves, I was sick. A pile of rocks—not even a proper marker.”
Litvanov downed vodka and wiped his mouth with a hand, which he then ran over his close-cropped skull. He turned his gaze on the girl. “I serve in the armed forces of a country that killed my family. I thought I had a good job, one of the best Russia could offer. I was blind to what was happening in Chechnya.” He reflected for a long moment, then said, “But now I have the means to strike back—
hard. So, like you, I made a decision and here I am.”
Through all of this the girl said nothing even though Litvanov spoke directly to her because he knew she understood the horror of Russian occupation in Chechnya. And because he had had a daughter her age.
“We all have our reasons,” Zakayev said. His mouth was a thin hard line.
“It’s hard to forget. I go on sometimes.”
Somewhere a rumbling diesel truck, perhaps hauling logs bound for one of the sawmills in Murmansk, made the warehouse tremble.
Zakayev said, “That sailor, Radchenko, and the American. What do you hear?”
Litvanov shoveled salted fish into his mouth and spoke while he chewed. “Nothing. No one at Olenya Bay has asked any questions. Radchenko’s been listed as a deserter. His records, personal effects, everything, went to Northern Fleet Headquarters in Severomorsk. It’s as if he never existed. As for the Amerikanski, I was told the FSB investigators looked around the hotel for less than an hour, then packed up and left town. The michman who discovered what Radchenko was up to is one of my best men.”
A gust of wind off the harbor rattled the office window glazing. The girl shivered and hunched her shoulders.
“The weather will be cold but stay clear for another day or so,” Litvanov said, dislodging a fish bone from his teeth.
“Then it’s time to go. As you said, there are patrol boats.”
Litvanov downed another drink then wrapped the bread and fish in newspaper He threw the waste in a trash bin and stuck the bottle of vodka in his outer coat pocket. “Security at the base is nonexistent, a joke,” he said as he finished up. “A few conscripts with unloaded assault rifles. When they see your uniform, they’ll be so frightened, they’ll piss their pants and wave us right through without asking for identification.”
“And you?” Zakayev said, looking at Litvanov’s grubby outfit.
“They don’t know who I am. They’ll think I’m your civilian driver.” He jerked a thumb at the girl.
“And her, they’ll just ignore because they’ll think she’s—he’s—with you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. The base commander’s a drunk and has no idea what’s going on under his own nose. They’re all a bunch of drunks. How do you think we walk off with goods to barter? Trust me on that.”
They stood in the alley by the bolted door adjusting to the dark, getting their bearings.
“This way,” Litvanov said.
Suddenly a pair of headlight beams shot into the alley blinding them. Litvanov threw up an arm. Frozen in the hard, brilliant light, it took a moment to react.
“Get
“And you, Georgi Alexeyevich?”
Litvanov lifted and dropped his shoulders. “What have I to lose? Tell me?” His eyes searched Zakayev’s face. “I have a photograph of my wife and children in their coffins. My cousin sent it to me.
At first I thought it was a cruel joke somebody was playing, and I wish to God it was. I had to beg for leave and even then I was granted only three days. Three days. My cousin had them buried in Sernovodsk, our ancestral village, the same as yours, General. When I got there and saw their graves, I was sick. A pile of rocks—not even a proper marker.”
Litvanov downed vodka and wiped his mouth with a hand, which he then ran over his close-cropped skull. He turned his gaze on the girl. “I serve in the armed forces of a country that killed my family. I thought I had a good job, one of the best Russia could offer. I was blind to what was happening in Chechnya.” He reflected for a long moment, then said, “But now I have the means to strike back—
hard. So, like you, I made a decision and here I am.”
Through all of this the girl said nothing even though Litvanov spoke directly to her because he knew she understood the horror of Russian occupation in Chechnya. And because he had had a daughter her age.
“We all have our reasons,” Zakayev said. His mouth was a thin hard line.
“It’s hard to forget. I go on sometimes.”
Somewhere a rumbling diesel truck, perhaps hauling logs bound for one of the sawmills in Murmansk, made the warehouse tremble.
Zakayev said, “That sailor, Radchenko, and the American. What do you hear?”
Litvanov shoveled salted fish into his mouth and spoke while he chewed. “Nothing. No one at Olenya Bay has asked any questions. Radchenko’s been listed as a deserter. His records, personal effects, everything, went to Northern Fleet Headquarters in Severomorsk. It’s as if he never existed. As for the Amerikanski, I was told the FSB investigators looked around the hotel for less than an hour, then packed up and left town. The michman who discovered what Radchenko was up to is one of my best men.”
A gust of wind off the harbor rattled the office window glazing. The girl shivered and hunched her shoulders.
“The weather will be cold but stay clear for another day or so,” Litvanov said, dislodging a fish bone from his teeth.
“Then it’s time to go. As you said, there are patrol boats.”
Litvanov downed another drink then wrapped the bread and fish in newspaper He threw the waste in a trash bin and stuck the bottle of vodka in his outer coat pocket. “Security at the base is nonexistent, a joke,” he said as he finished up. “A few conscripts with unloaded assault rifles. When they see your uniform, they’ll be so frightened, they’ll piss their pants and wave us right through without asking for identification.”
“And you?” Zakayev said, looking at Litvanov’s grubby outfit.
“They don’t know who I am. They’ll think I’m your civilian driver.” He jerked a thumb at the girl.
“And her, they’ll just ignore because they’ll think she’s—he’s—with you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. The base commander’s a drunk and has no idea what’s going on under his own nose. They’re all a bunch of drunks. How do you think we walk off with goods to barter? Trust me on that.”
They stood in the alley by the bolted door adjusting to the dark, getting their bearings.
“This way,” Litvanov said.
Suddenly a pair of headlight beams shot into the alley blinding them. Litvanov threw up an arm. Frozen in the hard, brilliant light, it took a moment to react.
“Get