“Reagan!” Faith held her hands out to the dog, praying he didn’t attack and blow her cover. The husky reared up on his back legs and frantically licked her face, slurping up the remaining lard. She petted the back of his thick neck and turned toward the woman. “Poor Reagan had no walk since yesterday. I’m afraid he left us a present. If you want, you can come over, visit with us and help clean up after him.”
The woman let out a loud snort and slammed her door.
Summer grabbed Reagan’s collar and wrestled him back into the apartment.
“I don’t think she’s going to be calling the police. We should be safe here for a little while,” Faith said as she scratched the dog. “And thank you, Mr. Reagan, for getting that grease off my face.”
The translucent blue eyes of the Siberian husky followed Summer as he paced around the central Moscow apartment crammed with antiques. St. George slew an assortment of lumpy iconic dragons while the Virgin Mary looked on with serene disapproval. The creak of the floor echoed from the high ceiling as he stepped across the worn oriental carpets. Reagan leaped up on an analyst’s couch and curled up.
“What is this place? Are all Russian apartments like this?” Summer said as he looked around.
“Definitely not. You never find one person living in anything this spacious. She had political ties to Brezhnev through one of her husbands.”
“I meant all of this crap. And this place smells like an old lady’s face powder. I’m kind of glad the formaldehyde’s still on me.”
“I don’t like this room, either. I never could get into classic Russian art. But to answer your question, this isn’t normal-nothing about Svetlana is. Let’s go clean up.”
Faith patted the dining-room wall until she found the light switch. A kilim dominated one wall. Woven into the tapestry was the likeness of two Turkic women, their heads covered with bright yellow scarves. They wore matching baggy harem pants under blue and red flowered dresses and each one swung a sickle at wheat stalks.
“What a delight,” Faith whispered as she touched it, admiring the weave. She stepped backward for a better view. “Oh, I want this. You can’t imagine how rare it is.”
“Faith, focus. This isn’t the time to go shopping.”
“We’re safe for the time being. Give me just one moment of beauty.” Faith studied the design. “I can’t get the image of that dead guard’s bloody neck out of my mind. You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”
“I’m special forces. Sometimes my job means taking out the enemy. I’ve seen action in Grenada, Nicaragua and places no one’s supposed to know I’ve ever been. I’ve only done it when absolutely necessary. You work the clean side of the Cold War, smuggling pretty rugs across borders. The Cold War’s not all clean. It takes a lot to keep it from going hot. One of the ways both governments keep it from breaking out of control is by using guys like me and denying like hell they ever did it.”
“I’m not sure that justifies it.”
“Faith, we’ve been having this East-versus-West, hawk-and-dove debate since we were kids. Seems to me they just forced you onto my side.”
“I don’t take sides. I play the communist sympathizer with you, but that’s just to hassle you, since you’re such a dyed-in-the-wool American.” Faith spoke without taking her gaze off the kilim.
“You were always the communist sympathizer, but never a communist. You’re an American when you’re around the Germans and they’re bugging the shit out of you, but you’re never a patriot. It’s the same thing with relationships. You can’t settle down. Things get serious, you’re outta there.”
“I was too young.”
“You couldn’t make up your mind about what you wanted, kind of like now. You can’t take a stand on anything.”
“I think that abortion in Tulsa counts.”
“As a stand against your mama, but not for what you wanted. I haven’t seen you make a choice about something since then. You sit on every fence you can find.”
“Not fair.” Faith choked back tears. “I’ve had enough today without this.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bicker with you. It’s been a tough couple a days for both of us, and it’s not over yet.” He stood and put his arm around her waist. She pressed her head against him and closed her eyes.
“You know I love you,” Faith said.
“I know.” He stroked her hair. “But I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
Reagan raised his head and his ears perked. He trotted from the room toward the door.
“Must be Svetlana,” Faith said. “You stay here so you don’t scare her. I’ll go.”
“Faith, what’s going on?” Svetlana said in Russian as she stepped over to Summer and took his right hand and turned it over. She pushed back the bloodied sleeve. Red muscle tissue was visible through a deep, six-inch-long laceration that zigzagged across his forearm. Blood seeped from the wound. She squinted as she examined the cut on his forehead.
“We need help,” Faith said.
“I see that.”
Faith switched to English: “This is Max Summer-the ex-fiancé I’ve told you about.” Only when she introduced Summer to Svetlana did Faith notice how wrecked they both looked. Summer had a two-inch gash over his swollen left eye. The skin around it was various shades of dark purple. Stubble covered his head and face, but didn’t quite conceal a long scratch on his left cheek. His clothes testified to his odyssey. His ripped shirt was coated in dirt and dried blood. Faith knew the blood wasn’t only his.
Faith continued, “We just escaped from the KGB. We haven’t done anything wrong-I’ll explain later. I’m so sorry about breaking into your home, but you weren’t here and I didn’t know where else to go or whom else I could trust.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Svetlana spoke English with a British accent. Svetlana turned to Summer. “Those wounds need to be cleaned up. Nothing urgent, but you need a couple layers of sutures. Faith, are you hurt?”
“The Stasi cracked some of my ribs a week ago. They’re really sore, but mending.”
“The Stasi? You two make friends everywhere you go. Faith, can you please grab my bag out of the hall closet? And, while you’re there, fetch some old towels for you to sit on. You’re both slightly soiled.” Svetlana held Summer’s arm and led him into the kitchen.
Faith set the old-fashioned doctor’s bag down on the table and spread towels over two chairs. Svetlana opened a waxed-paper envelope, shook out two curved needles and set them on the packet. She snipped off a strip of gauze and cut away his shirtsleeve.
“Faith, keep the pressure on this while you take him over to the sink and rinse out the wound with running water and alcohol. Before you do that, put on some water to boil for tea and to sterilize the needle. I’ll be back in a minute. Reagan, come along, dear.” Svetlana disappeared into the bathroom. Her dog sat outside the door.
Faith opened a cabinet, squatted and stared at the hodgepodge. Pots, pans and skillets of every size, material and color were stacked on top of one another, but nothing matched. She chose a white enamel pot, but couldn’t locate its lid. When she pushed the cabinet door shut, an avalanche roared inside the cabinet. She lit the gas stove.
Summer cut himself a fresh strip of gauze and pressed it against the wound. Red spots immediately appeared. “How sterile do you think all of this is?”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s probably Reagan you’ll be sharing needles with, so I’d say your biggest risk is distemper.” Faith returned to the table. “This beats the average Soviet hospital. They’re something you don’t want to experience. I once heard a doctor here complain that American disposable needles broke after about a dozen uses.”
Reagan rushed ahead of Svetlana toward the sound of the whistling teakettle. Svetlana turned the burner off and stepped into an adjacent room. She retrieved a stack of handle-less cups and a teapot, steadying the teapot against her chest as she closed the china-cabinet door.