“He left a family—well, a widow. His son died last month, they tell me. Some kind of cancer,” the KGB Major noted quietly.
“I hope you will take proper care of his wife,” the Captain replied.
“Yes, we have a department to manage that. Might they have dragged him off?”
“Well, we know they were here. They always loot crash sites, looking for weapons. Documents?” The Captain shrugged. “We’re fighting ignorant savages, Comrade Major. I doubt that they have much interest in documents of any kind. They might have recognized his uniform as that of a KGB officer, then dragged him off to mutilate the body. You wouldn’t believe what they do to captives.”
“Barbarians,” the KGB man muttered. “Shooting down an unarmed airliner.” He looked around. “Loyal” Afghan troops—that was an optimistic adjective for them, he grumbled—were putting the bodies, and the pieces, into rubber bags to be helicoptered back to Ghazni, then flown to Moscow for identification. “And if they dragged my man’s body off?”
“We’ll never find it. Oh, there’s some chance, but not a good one. Every circling vulture we see, we’ll send a helicopter out, but . . .” The Captain shook his head. “The odds are that you already have the body, Comrade Major. It will just require some time to confirm the fact.”
“Poor bastard—desk man. Wasn’t even his territory, but the man assigned here is in the hospital with gallbladder problems, and he took this job in addition to his own.”
“What’s his usual territory?”
“The Tadzhik SSR. I suppose he wanted the extra work to get his mind off his troubles.”
“How are you feeling, Russian?” the Archer asked his prisoner. They couldn’t provide much in the way of medical attention. The nearest medical team, made up of French doctors and nurses, was in a cave near Hasan Khél. Their own walking casualties were heading there now. Those more seriously hurt . . . well, what could they do? They had a goodly supply of painkillers, morphine ampuls manufactured in Switzerland, and injected the dying to ease their pain. In some cases the morphine helped them along, but anyone who showed hope of recovery was placed on a litter and carried southeast toward the Pakistani border. Those who survived the sixty-mile journey would receive care in something that passed for a real hospital, near the closed airfield at Miram Shah. The Archer led this party. He’d successfully argued with his comrades that the Russian was worth more alive than dead, that the Americastani would give them much for a member of the Russian political police and his documents. Only the tribal headman could have defeated this argument, and he was dead. They’d given the body as hasty a burial as their faith permitted, but he was now in Paradise. That left the Archer now as the most senior and trusted warrior of the band.
Who could have told from his flint-hard eyes and cold words that for the first time in three years there was pity in his heart? Even he was bemused by it. Why had those thoughts entered his head? Was it the will of Allah? It had to be, he thought. Who else could stop me from killing a Russian?
“Hurt,” the Russian answered finally. But the Archer’s pity didn’t stretch that far. The morphine the mudjaheddin carried was only for their own. After looking to be sure that no one saw, he passed the Russian the photographs of his family. For the briefest instant his eyes softened. The KGB officer looked at him in surprise that overcame the pain. His good hand took the photographs, cupping them to his chest. There was gratitude on his face, gratitude and puzzlement. The man thought of his dead son, and contemplated his own fate. The worst thing that could happen, he decided within the cloud of pain, was that he’d rejoin his child, wherever he was. The Afghans could not hurt him worse than he already was in body and soul. The Captain was already to the point that the pain had become like a drug, so familiar that the agony had become tolerable, almost comfortable. He’d heard that this was possible, but not believed it until now.
His mental processes were still not fully functional. In his twilight state he wondered why he hadn’t been killed. He’d heard enough stories in Moscow about how the Afghans treated captives . . . and was that why you volunteered to handle this tour in addition to your own . . . ? He wondered now at his fate, and how he’d brought it about.
You cannot die, Valeriy Mikhailovich, you must live. You have a wife, and she has suffered enough, he told himself. Already she is going through . . . The thought stopped of its own accord. The Captain slid the photo into a breast pocket and surrendered himself to the beckoning unconsciousness as his body labored to heal itself. He didn’t wake as he was bound to a board and placed aboard a travois. The Archer led his party off.
Misha woke with the sounds of battle reverberating through his head. It was still dark outside—the sun would not rise for some time—and his first considered action was to go into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and washed down three aspirin. Some dry heaves followed, over the toilet, but all that came out was yellow bile, and he rose to look in the mirror to see what treason had done to a Hero of the Soviet Union. He could not—would not—stop, of course, but . . . but look what it is doing to you, Misha. The once clear-blue eyes were bloodshot and lifeless, the ruddy complexion gray like a corpse. His skin sagged, and the gray stubble on his cheeks blurred a face that had once been called handsome. He stretched his right arm, and as usual the scar tissue was stiff, looking like plastic. Well. He washed out his mouth and trudged off to the kitchen to make some coffee.
At least he had some of that, also bought in a store that catered to the members of the nomenklatura, and a Western-made machine with which to brew it. He debated over eating something, but decided to stick with coffee alone. He could always have some bread at his desk. The coffee was ready in three minutes. He drank a cup straight down, ignoring the damaging heat of the liquid, then lifted his phone to order his staff car. He wanted to be picked up early, and though he didn’t say that he wanted to visit the baths this morning, the sergeant who answered the phone at the motor pool knew what the reason was.
Twenty minutes later Misha emerged from the front of his building. His eyes were already watering, and he squinted painfully into the cold northwest wind that tried to sweep him back through the doors. The sergeant thought to reach out and steady his Colonel, but Filitov shifted his weight slightly to fight against the invisible hand of nature that held him back and got into the car as he always did, as though he were boarding his old T-34 for combat.
“The baths, Comrade Colonel?” the driver asked after getting back in front.
“Did you sell the vodka I gave you?”
“Why, yes, Comrade Colonel,” the youngster answered.
“Good for you, that’s healthier than drinking it. The baths. Quickly,” the Colonel said with mock gravity, “and I might yet live.”
“If the Germans couldn’t kill you, my Colonel, I doubt that a few drops of good Russian vodka can,” the boy said cheerfully.
Misha allowed himself a laugh, accepting the flash in his head with good humor. The driver even looked like his Corporal Romanov. “How would you like to be an officer someday?”
“Thank you, Comrade Colonel, but I wish to return to the university to study. My father is a chemical engineer and plan to follow him.”
“He is a lucky man, then, Sergeant. Let’s get moving.
The car pulled up to the proper building in ten minutes. The sergeant let his Colonel out, then parked in the reserved spaces from which he could see the doors. He lit a cigarette and opened a book. This was very good duty, better than tromping around in the mud with a motor-rifle company. He checked his watch. Old Misha wouldn’t be back for nearly an hour. Poor old bastard, he thought, to be so lonely. What miserable luck that a hero should come to this.
Inside, the routine was so fixed that Misha could have done it asleep. After undressing, he got his towels, and slippers, and birch branches, and moved off to the steam room. He was earlier than usual. Most of the regulars hadn’t shown up yet. So much the better. He increased the flow of water onto the firebricks and sat down to allow his pounding head to clear. Three others were scattered about the room. He recognized two of them, but they weren’t acquaintances, and none seemed in the mood to talk. That was fine with Misha. The mere act of moving his jaw hurt, and the aspirin were slow today.