Everyone in fact seemed more subdued. No one spoke, so Kate got no read on their thoughts. But it was clear what preoccupied her mind. Were those men killed by the Chinese? Or by the bombs these men had worked so hard to call in?
The more she thought, the more she realized it didn’t matter. They were killed in the fighting. Why care by whom? ‘Friendly fire’ only seemed criminal when considered from afar. Up close, it was all killing.
‘You want me to get some more shots of the airstrikes?’ Woody asked lethargically.
Kate frowned and then shook her head. ‘We’ve got plenty of bombing runs and artillery barrages and supply airdrops.’ She knew what they needed to get next. And to tell the truth, the thought frightened her. Out of the corner of her eye she could tell that Woody was watching her. When she looked up, he caught and held her eyes.
She turned away — uncomfortable. ‘You think,’ she began, ‘maybe, they’ve aired some of the tapes we put on the medevacs?’
Woody took his time in responding. ‘Why don’t you just come out and say it, Kate?’
‘I just hope they got past the censors, that’s all.’ Still, he stared at her. ‘What? His eyes were no longer bloodshot. They bored straight into her. ‘Just one trip down to the fighting in the valley, Woody! Okay? Then we’ll get out. Okay?’ He said nothing. ‘Okay, Woody?’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kartsev’s writing had grown stale and forced. His treatise was almost complete, but it suffered from his cloistered existence in the Kremlin. One week to go before his May Day address and he was completely out of touch with the world. How could one comment on a society one didn’t know? He sat back and took a deep breath. He checked the clock and saw that it was morning. Under the clutter on his desk he found the intercom. ‘Would someone come in here, please?’ he said. There was no reply. A shot of adrenaline tingled Kartsev’s spine. ‘Hello-o-o?’ he said over the intercom.
There was a steady rapping at the door. Kartsev released the electric locks with the press of a button. An ashen young man entered. He couldn’t bring himself to look Kartsev in the eye. He stood with his head bowed and hands clasped like a royal servant called into the king’s private chambers.
‘I want to go out,’ Kartsev announced. The man’s head shot up in surprise.
Mounds of trash were piled against the drab buildings. They forced pedestrians off the sidewalks and onto the streets. Kartsev’s motorcade, in turn, sent them scampering back to the kerbs. Sprays of slush from the melting snow showered the suffering crowd. Kartsev wanted to get a better look. ‘Slow down!’ he ordered over the intercom. Kartsev’s limousine and his guards’ two Mercedes slowed. The car in front turned randomly through the endless maze of streets. Many people, Kartsev noted, wore kerchiefs or scarves tied over their faces. He again used the intercom. ‘Do those people cover their faces because of the smell?’
His nervous aide in front looked at the driver before answering. ‘The smell, I would imagine, sir. The temperature is up.’ Kartsev nodded, but then sought clarification. ‘Is it rotting garbage, or human remains?’
His aide and driver discussed the response. ‘Probably both, sir,’ he finally replied.
Some trash heaps rose all the way to the second-storey windows. The refuse went uncollected. But it was stacked somewhat neatly. ‘Have these people organized in any way since the revolution? Have they formed any sort of self-government or committees or whatnot?’
‘I don’t imagine anyone has organized, sir. We still have very effective patrols against organizers.’
Kartsev glanced up at the man on his use of the word ‘still.’ Did he mean the decline had begun? The deterioration in discipline among even his Black Shirts? It was inevitable. But Kartsev hadn’t seen any sign of it yet. The thought alarmed him. ‘Stop the car!’
The aide turned all the way around to look at Kartsev through the glass. Kartsev repeated his command, and the aide issued the order over the radio. It took a while, but the motorcade slowly pulled to a stop. Men in heavy black overcoats poured onto the street. Astonished pedestrians carrying their empty shopping bags cowered and scattered in fear. Kartsev didn’t wait for someone to open his door.
The air was crisp and cool. It was not putrid as he’d expected but refreshing. His security troops were shouting orders and brandishing weapons. The street emptied quickly. Up ahead was a charred and overturned city bus. They’d seen no cars on the road at all. Kartsev passed the lead Mercedes. The dismounted security people surrounded Kartsev. They scanned for threats in every direction. Kartsev came upon a narrow passage through the heaps of garbage. It led to the entrance of an apartment building. A woman hid there. When the armed men turned their weapons on her she dove into the trash. Kartsev walked up to her quivering back. She was sobbing face-down in the mess. Now the smell was overpowering. Kartsev covered his nose with his handkerchief.
‘You!’ he said. ‘You, there, in the trash.’ One of his men grabbed her collar and pulled. She curled into a fat ball on the pavement. Her teeth were capped in gold. Her head was wrapped in a faded scarf. She was from the country, not the city. ‘Who made this passage?’ Kartsev asked, waggling his gloved hand at the neat walkway. The woman’s eyes were jammed shut. She seemed to be mouthing something like a prayer. A guard kicked the fat wool mound. ‘That’s not necessary,’ Kartsev chided. He raised his eyes to the building. There were presumably communicative people inside.
He entered the darkened doorway. His surprised security team got jammed in the narrow entrance behind him. Kartsev headed up the dim stairwell in the lead. When they got to the first floor, the stench of urine was almost unbearable. The wider hallway allowed the guards to rush by without jostling Kartsev, although they didn’t know exactly where to go. They all stared at Kartsev — waiting. He went to the first door. Its number was stenciled on the flaked plaster wall. He knocked. No one came to the door. He proceeded to the next. Again, there was no one. After he got no response at the third door, his patience wore thin. He looked at his aide and nodded toward the door.
A brutish man in an oversized jacket stepped up. He drew his pistol and aimed at the door knob. He fired repeatedly from close range. The loud ‘booms’ each gave Kartsev a start. His ears rang. The flame from the gun lit the hallway. The smoke caused Kartsev to again cover his nose. A firm kick opened the door right up. Several men entered the room with weapons drawn. Kartsev followed, totally unconcerned by the possibility of danger. The patient sufferers who lived in these Soviet-era sepulchers were not the sort who would make trouble.
The wails of a woman greeted Kartsev’s entry into the cramped living room. She was being dragged by her hair from behind a sofa. ‘Stop that!’ Kartsev snapped. The man released the kneeling woman’s hair. She crumpled to the floor holding her scalp and sobbing uncontrollably. Barely visible behind the sofa where she’d hidden was a lone boy of five or so — eyes wide.
Guards returned from the bedroom. ‘All clear. Just the woman and the boy.’
The lad remained behind the ratty couch. Kartsev walked up to the petrified woman. ‘You, what’s your name?’ When she didn’t answer, he thought quickly and restrained the guard whose boot was already raised. ‘I won’t hurt you. My name is Valentin Kartsev.’ The woman froze. Her quiet gasps for air abruptly ended. After a moment of silence, her back bucked once. She vomited over and over. The mess grew on the floor beneath her. ‘Oh, good lord!’ Kartsev said. He turned away and pressed the scented handkerchief back to his nose. The boy stared out with haunted eyes. Kartsev made his way past the disgusting mess and sat on the sofa. The squeaky springs were sharp and uncomfortable through the thin padding, however, and Kartsev rose almost immediately. The quiet boy kept his eyes on Kartsev, not daring even to blink. ‘What’s your name?’ Kartsev asked.