Nate got up and walked around his desk. Reed rose and the two men shook hands. Nate then grabbed Reed’s shoulders and hugged him as he would his own son. Reed shed tears he’d have to learn to live with for the rest of his natural life.
Kate zipped up her ski jacket as she waited at the door of the smoky coffee house. Woody still sat at the table filled with Dutch journalists. He was taking one last hit off their brass ‘traveling’ bong. Chilled vodka gurgled in the tube. ‘Woody-y-y-y!’ she called out. ‘Come on!’
That began his ridiculous good-byes. There were soul shakes which led to hugs. They stood holding each other locked in tight embrace. She could’ve sworn they would break out crying after having bonded so completely around the bong. He parted with his fingers making a peace sign. The aging Dutch freaks responded in kind.
When Woody joined Kate at the door, she said, ‘What a truly moving moment.’
Woody was stoned out of his mind. ‘Did you see the size of that hash rock?’ he asked in a tone of awe.
‘Is this like a religion to you? Like those Indian tribes who eat those… What do they eat?’
She opened the door.
‘Peyote!’ Woody grinned and shouted.
Kate was grabbed roughly by two men. They pulled her out and shoved Woody back inside. One man pinned the door closed. Kate screamed into the empty street. They pushed her into a van and slammed the door behind her. She sat in complete darkness as the van rocked from side to side through the abandoned city.
Pyotr Andreev carried the rolled carpet through the perekhod. He used the dark, underground pedestrian tunnel even though the city boulevard above was barren of traffic. The air reeked of urine and of the unwashed men who lined the walls. It looked like the permanent residence of people driven underground by the terrors of the streets.
Pyotr suddenly saw two men framed in the bright sunlight from the stairs toward which he headed. They strolled slowly — walking side by side — approaching him from the Red Square exit. They both wore jack boots, and one swung a baton. Against the backlighting, he saw only their shapes… and the two machine pistols they carried. The guns dangled from straps hung over their shoulders.
Andreev had to make a choice. To lie down in the filth with the dregs of society? Or stroll calmly past the two men? A man coughed, and Pyotr stole a quick glance at him. His weathered face and matted beard resolved his conflict. Pyotr knew he would stand out among such men.
He shifted his grip on the large roll. In the process, his right hand moved nearer his Ingram. He could hand over the heavy load to the Black Shirts. As they reacted in surprise at its weight, he’d extract the Mac-10, flick the safety, and kill them both.
And his mission would be aborted one day short of completion.
A flashlight shone straight into his eyes. Andreev halted and rested the carpet on its end. When the beam ran down the roll, Pyotr’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness. One of the men wore the black garb of the anarchists. The other wore a garrison cap with a shiny brim — a policeman. The incredible rise in street violence had forced a police recall. Pairs like this one were now a common sight in Moscow. But the Black Shirt was there to keep an eye on the cop. He could act with impunity while the cop walked a fine line.
‘What’s that?’ the Black Shirt asked. Pyotr couldn’t see the man’s face, but he imagined the sneer that he heard in his tone.
‘A rug,’ Pyotr answered.
‘Where are you headed with it?’ the other man — the policeman — asked.
‘To GUM, to trade it for food.’
The Black Shirt snorted. ‘Open it up,’ he commanded matter of factly.
‘But it’ll get grimy on the wet floor,’ Pyotr argued — his hand inching closer to his Ingram.
The slapping of the Black Shirt’s sling against his gun preceded the sight of a small round muzzle in front of Pyotr’s right eye. The clicking sound of the safety was distinct. Cold metal pressed hard against his cheekbone. Pyotr stoically kept every motion to a bare minimum. ‘I won’t tell you twice,’ the Black Shirt said.
The policeman’s flashlight flicked on. ‘Cover me while I check it,’ he said. The Black Shirt stepped back — holding the machine pistol one-handed and aimed straight at Pyotr’s face.
Pyotr’s heart began to race. It couldn’t have been a more impossible situation. The officer raised the flashlight and peered inside the roll. But Pyotr’s entire focus was on the Black Shirt with the gun. He didn’t dare look at the man, but he saw there was no sway in the large pistol. The man appeared sober. At three meters, he couldn’t possibly miss.
The policeman rooted around inside the roll. Pyotr worked on a plan. He could grab the officer as a shield and try to draw the Ingram. But the Black Shirt cared no more for the cop than for Pyotr. He’d gun them both down without a moment’s hesitation. Pyotr had no hope of escape from that gloomy tunnel. At best his dying act would be to kill the Black Shirt. It was hardly the great blow for which he was prepared to sacrifice everything. To give up his wonderful new life with Olga and the girls. To never again feel their smooth faces rubbing against his morning beard. To have heard their last squeals of delight at simple things like fresh snow and surprise sweets.
‘Turn it over,’ the cop ordered.
This is it, Pyotr thought in a daze. He tried not to let his eyes water. Maybe if he grabbed the policeman’s pistol instead of drawing his own… He slowly rotated the rolled carpet in the air, raising the open end to the prying man’s gaze.
The flashlight clicked on. All Pyotr could see was the top of the hat. Fragments of half-formed plans ricochetted through Pyotr’s mind. His thoughts remained in pieces, however, because of the shattering effect of one thought. He would never see his family again.
The police officer’s movements fell still. Pyotr’s every sense was focused and intense. From the depth of the cop’s probing hand — from the steady beam of his flashlight — Pyotr knew that the man stared right at the black muzzle of the enormous .50-caliber sniper rifle.
‘You see anything?’ the Black Shirt asked.
The brim of the cop’s hat rose slowly. Pyotr knew the time was now — the time was now! But something made him hesitate. From under the polished black brim there appeared two close-set eyes. They were gray — very Russian — and fixed on Pyotr’s.
‘Well? the Black Shirt demanded impatiently.
The flashlight clicked off and the perekhod fell dark.
‘He’s clean,’ the cop replied. With his eyes still fixed on Pyotr he said, ‘Better hurry. We’re closing GUM early. The big May Day rally is tomorrow morning, you know.’
Pyotr nodded, hoisted the heavy rug, and headed toward the gray light of Red Square.