64
Marko and Katerina had stationed themselves near the center of the preserve, next to a stand of bamboo that was ringed by English ivy. All the redbud trees, which had been bright pink the month before, were now fully leafed out. Songbirds were calling out from their high perches up in the cedars. Katerina was seated on a small folding camp chair, in front of an easel and canvas, painting a brilliant red poppy flower. The reflecting pool beyond her was covered with lily pads and formed the backdrop to her painting.
Marko sat cross-legged on a blanket beside her, reading and smoking.
After a half hour of silence, he put down his book and, in Russian, asked, “What do you think about Ioseliani?”
The book he’d been reading — or at least trying to read, it was in Georgian and he was having difficulty with the language — was about the Mongol invasion of Georgia in the 13th century. But he couldn’t focus on the distant past when so much was going on right now. Jaba Ioseliani was a modern-day criminal-turned-paramilitary who was, at present, advocating for Georgian independence from the Soviet Union.
Katerina had been concentrating on her poppy. “What do you think about him?”
“Well, I like his politics now, of course.”
Stifling a yawn as she dipped her brush into a dollop of Venetian red paint, she said, “Then I like him.”
“But I worry that he doesn’t care about democracy, that he’d be just as bad as the communists if he ever had his way. I mean, he’s not a communist, but…”
As Katerina painted one of the poppy’s petals, she offered, “I too would prefer democracy.”
“You just say this to please me.”
“And does it?”
Katerina professed to have no love for communism, but Marko knew that mostly she simply didn’t care. She preferred to talk about Renoir — do you think he really was happy, or just trying paint in a way that would inspire happiness in others? — or if not Renoir, then she’d gladly engage in long conversations about Manet or Corot or Matisse or Cassatt or Picasso. She didn’t like Picasso, but one of her art books had paintings from his blue period that she knew Marko liked, so she’d try to use Picasso as a way to lure Marko in…or if not conversing about painters then she’d gladly discuss American movies or U2 or sex or cats — she wanted a cat, but the university wouldn’t allow her to keep one in her dorm room…
“You should come with me to the next meeting,” said Marko, referring to the next meeting of the student Press Club.
A gentle sigh. “And what would I do at this meeting? My mother and brother made me promise not to take part in any of the protests.”
Marko had never met Katerina’s mother, or her brother, because Katerina worried they might not approve of her dating an American. They were, she’d explained, more traditional in their views than she was.
“Going to a meeting is not the same as going to a protest. At the next meeting, we’re discussing the kind of government we would like to see for Georgia once the Soviets are gone. I mean, a democracy, yes, of course. But will there be a president? A prime minister? There are many questions to resolve.”
Katerina tilted her head, smiled, and then leaned down to where Marko was sitting. When she spoke, she breathed into his mouth. “OK. We’ll go together then.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
They kissed. Katerina went back to her painting and Marko went back to struggling with his book on Georgian history. After an hour, though, Marko took a break to light another cigarette. It was late in the day, nearly five o’clock, and the way the sun was filtering down through the trees and dappling Katerina’s dirty-blond hair struck him as exceptionally beautiful. So he reached for his backpack, unzipped the top flap, and pulled out a small point-and-shoot camera.
65
Mark told Titov all that he remembered of that day, then said, “The painting is a reproduction of a photograph I took of Katerina a month before your men captured me. I didn’t visit her after I escaped. I wasn’t lying to you.” Katerina has always been beautiful, but she’d been exceptionally so that day and Mark had wanted to capture it. “It was one of my favorite images of her, and she knew it. That’s why she used it to paint her self-portrait.”
Mark let his voice trail off as he rested his forehead on the floor. He was sure that was what Katerina had been thinking. He felt connected to her right then.
“So you really don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
Instead of answering, Titov said, “I am glad I had the opportunity to kill that scum Bowlan, but now that you have told me this story, I confess that it is with regret that I must kill you, Sava. Come, I will make this easy. But first you must move to the carpet. I cannot have the hard floor here getting wet, not with all the electric wires.”
As Titov bent down next to him, Mark considered asking the Russian to explain whatever the hell he’d just been talking about, and why he cared so much about Katerina, and why he’d really killed Bowlan. But then he thought of Lila, and Daria, and concluded that he didn’t have time for that luxury. His first priority had to be staying alive.
The second Mark felt Titov’s hand under his armpit, he pushed up off the floor with everything he had, slammed the back of his head into Titov’s chin, and then twisted and threw a punch into Titov’s neck, aiming for the windpipe. Titov took a step back, trying to aim his Grach at Mark, but he stumbled on an extension cord that led to the communications table.
Mark dove for Titov’s gun hand and simultaneously kneed him in the balls. Then he bit the base of the Russian’s thumb as hard as he could. He felt the skin break, and bone separate from tendon.
When Titov’s grip loosened on the Grach, Mark snatched it, fired a quick shot directly into Titov’s chest, pivoted, lurched to the communications table, stuck the Grach in his belt as he grabbed the AKS rifle, and fired on automatic as he stumble-sprinted toward the Russian operative who had been guarding the elevator but who was now running for cover.
To the left of the elevator, an open metal fire door led into an emergency stairwell. Mark ran to it, slammed it shut, and took cover behind the cinder-block wall to the side of the door. One of the Russians pinged the door with bullets. Beneath Mark, in the stairwell, a man called out in Russian, “Sergei! Is that you?”
Responding in Russian, Mark said, “Yes, the American, he’s escaped!”
As he spoke, Mark took a step forward. He didn’t have a clear shot at the Russian below him and he didn’t know how many men there were in the restaurant. He glanced up. The stairwell rose one more level and ended at a door that led to the roof.
The Russian below him called out, “Thirty-seven, nine! Identify!”
It was a code of some sort, Mark assumed. One that required a proper response. Instead, Mark fired a single shot down the stairwell and headed for the roof.
He twisted the doorknob, encountered resistance, flicked the firing mode to semiautomatic, fired two shots at the latch, then kicked at the door, but it held firm. He fired two more shots, and this time broke through.