‘Clark said no getting high!’ Kate reminded him.
Woody sat on the commode and flicked his lighter.
‘Wo-o-ody-y? Kate whispered through teeth clenched in anger. The tip of the joint glowed. ‘You could get us in red trouble, Woody! This is, like, the most totally stupid thing you could ever do!’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a grimace — smoke barely drifting from his pinched lips. He stood up on top of the toilet seat and exhaled slowly into a large vent. ‘These are air filters,’ he said. ‘This is a bomb shelter. They’ll never smell a thing.’
‘Is this really worth it to you?’ Kate asked in a plaintive tone. ‘Is getting high so Goddamned important?’
‘Well… yeah! Why do you think I go to so much trouble?’ Standing there, he flicked the lighter again and drew a deep toke from the joint.
‘Why?’ Kate asked.
But Woody turned to her with a serious look on his face.
He took his time again to exhale — eking out the maximum buzz for his buck despite having what appeared to be ample supplies.
‘’Cause,’ he answered at long last, ‘I got a bad feeling.’
‘What could you possibly complain about now? she asked. ‘We’re at UNRUSFOR Headquarters. Sleeping in a bomb shelter. How much safer does covering a war get?’
‘And you think you’ll stay here?’ he asked, suddenly animated. ‘For the duration of the war? You’ll agree to… to sit back and let the biggest military operation since I-don’t-know-when go off while you twiddle your thumbs in this bunker?’
Kate shrugged. They’d only just gotten there. It was hard to say. ‘Clark didn’t agree to us covering the actual offensive itself,’ she said. But already her mind was filling with the arguments she could make to him. She’d have an unprecedented understanding of the operation once it rolled around. She’d know exactly when and where the true drama of the story would play out. If she did a straight-up job on her reporting — maybe documentary-style — she might just earn Clark’s trust. A documentary, she thought. The goosebumps rippled up her arms. The definitive documentary on the Chinese War!
What she lost was the immediacy of a scoop. A fleeting few seconds of nightly air time. What she gained, however, was possibly a special. An hour — maybe even two — of exclusive, behind-the-scenes coverage of the biggest operation since whenever! It was perfect. Win or lose the battle, there was no need to manufacture the drama.
And the topper, she now realized, would have to be action footage. Not just any fighting, but the most crucial battle of the whole war. The most desperate, the most evenly matched, the most important. She’d remain on the lookout for that battle. Even though she knew nothing about military science, she was confident that one battle would stand out from all the others. She would talk her way into covering it. She just had to!
The flick of the lighter and the sucking of the joint drew her attention back to Woody. He watched her through sullen eyes — weighted down under the burden of his worries instead of soaring to the heights of euphoria.
‘Vassiliev,’ Kartsev read on the screen, ‘Lyudmila. Teacher in Kalina. Anonymous denunciation.’
Anonymous denunciation? he thought. That wasn’t enough. She was denounced for what, this Lyudmila Vassiliev? ‘No,’ he half-uttered, and clicked ‘Down.’ Kartsev’s eyes and shoulders were both growing sore. He sat hunched just in front of the bright screen.
Another name scrolled into view… another box. To check, or not to check, he thought in English. ‘To suffer the slings and arrows… slings and arrows’ bounced through his mind. He’d always wondered what slings were. He had to remind himself to refocus on the screen.
‘Ivanov,’ he said out loud, ‘Gri-i-isha.’ As nondescript a name as he’d ever seen. ‘Mechanic, Central Moscow. Possible conspiracy involving unknown persons.’ That was it? What persons? Conspiracy to do what? ‘It’s unbearable, these people,’ Kartsev slurred. I really have to get at least two-lines, he thought. He skipped another potentially guilty suspect because of insufficient information. But they’ll come back with more, he knew. There was really only one way to get off the surveillance list.
The charge levied against the next man was much more useful. ‘Andreev, Pyotr. Former commander, Presidential Security Force. Met with CIA in America.’ Well, it wasn’t actually a charge. Just a status, really. He was potentially dangerous.
And in America, Kartsev thought as he arched his stiff back. He’d totally lost interest in America after the assassination. Three of five missions had been foiled. The two that were successful didn’t seem to have any further effects. He’d written an entire chapter on the observation entitled, ‘Diminishing Marginal Effects of Terror: an Econometric Analysis.’ But maybe those effects would return with the passage of time.
Kartsev clicked on the box next to ‘Andreev, Pyotr’ — his hand beginning to cramp.
‘Mr Oscar Meyer?’ Pyotr Andrew asked.
‘Are zey turkey-baloney?’ Olga asked. A woman glanced her way on hearing the accent.
‘That’s what’s on the label.’ He dropped the package in the basket. ‘I don’t think shopping is supposed to take hours,’ Pyotr grumbled. He brushed the cookie crumbs off Mashenka’s sweater.
‘It doesn’t take hours,’ Olga retorted. She stopped at a display filled with cheeses. There were dozens of wax-wrapped brands. Pyotr knew she would study, them all.
‘I’m going on ahead for the Cheereos,’ he informed her. He rounded the end cap into an empty aisle.
‘Honey Nut? she called out from behind.
‘Honey Nut! Honey Nut!’ the kids began chanting from the basket. Pyotr could detect no trace of an accent.
There were a million brands. Special K, Kelloggs Corn Flakes, Cap’n Crunch, Pyotr read.
Pyotr noticed something at the end of the aisle. He looked up. A man with an overcoat raised a machine pistol. Pyotr dove to the floor behind a stand of iced orange juice. The angry roar of the gun splattered sprays of cold liquid onto Pyotr. Boxes of cereal burst and flew to the floor. There were shouts, and then screams… and then footsteps.
Four, three, two… Shot after shot rang out. The machine pistol clattered to the floor just beside him. He peered around the edge of the display to see two men in dark suits. They were making their way down the aisle toward the gunman. He lay prostrate in a widening pool of crimson blood.
The screams, the screams…
Pyotr turned. They were from Olga. She was bloody and clinging to the side of the basket… to the limp shapes of his children. Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God, he thought as he ran to them. With every step his fears were confirmed. They lay in the basket covered in blood. He quickly found the open artery in Masha’s thigh. He pressed it closed with his thumb and index finger. Poor Oksana sat at the back in total shock. She didn’t scream like little Mashenka. She didn’t move much, or even look around. Her skin was pale with fright. She stared straight at her screaming mother.