Through The Red Doors
The ratchet clang of a baton over steel bars woke him. Dragged
him up
through the cold, gray sludge of a toxic waste hangover and flung
him
down on a familiar, comfortless cot.
[[Hey, Hollywood...]] a guard boomed. Clang, clang.
Alex groaned, grabbed his head before the sound shattered it.
Fragmentes of the night before bubbled up like swamp gas.
Drinking?
Oh yes, definitely drinking. Ural urine—the moldy
potato-skin
squeezings that passed for moonshine here. Nothing like the smoky,
shimmering liquid dynamite he'd snuck back home. Russian
moonshine
was
brain-cell Raid—tastes like roach piss and it kills those pesky
neurons dead, dead, DEAD...
Clang. [[Come on, Marilyn Monroe. Beauty sleep's
over.
Get your lazy
American ass out of bed...]]
[[Fuck off!]] Alex thought and then heard the echo of the words in
English in his head. Almost meaningless these days. And
it hurt. He
pulled the thin blanket up over his face. It cut the razor
shear
of the
light but left his naked feet cold and exposed.
Fuck. Naked. He was naked. A sharp rush of fear
washed
through him,
icing his nerve endings. Bad news memory nuzzled at the edge
of his
conscious grasp.
Last night.
Dark. Cold. Black sky and stars. There'd been music
and dancing—a
piss-up, an end-of-mission wild night. And the boys of
Spetznas
Unit
Spider were ready to party hearty. Bare feet cold on the crisp
grass.
Dusky poisonous tang of the homemade vodka in his mouth and, God,
he'd
been drunk. Falling against them, hard bodies under green
fatigues.
Laughing. The smell of men; of sweat and alcohol, dark tobacco
and
testosterone...and something else. Chemical tang. That
thing with the
tape—those Chechen boys had brought it. Fat rolls of gray
industrial
adhesive tape. They'd pulled it off in strips.
[[Come on, American pussy, try it. This is how real Russians
get
off.
You want to be a real Russian soldier, neh? Real hard core?]]
Yeah. Real. God he wanted to be real. So,
yes...yes...and
Alex
remembered strong arms holding him, the acid sting of a sharp knife
sliding across his scalp, blood dribbling in his eyes and tape
slapped
on the cut. And...
Clang. Clang. [[Whoo-hoo. Give us a peep show,
Marilyn...]]
Christ, whatever the hell it was, the rush had hit him like a swarm
of
bees. A buzzing, golden riptide that poured through his scalp,
prickling and stinging and lifting him off his feet...He remembered
turning, spinning, round and round, his eyes clicking open and shut
like
camera lenses; burning still frames of the night into his
brain:
dancing, singing, tearing off his kit.... Grabbing
Danylo.
[[Dance
with me, Dany... Pajalista... please.]] And Dany
had.
Taken him up in
strong arms, whirled round and round the fire and he'd... Christ...
he
had, hadn't he? Forgotten where he was, who he was with, what
he was
supposed to be... What he was supposed to not be.
Alex groaned helplessly, clutched himself, shivering under the thin
blanket, remembering—he'd pressed his lips into the soft curve of
Dany's neck, tasted the salt of Dany's flesh. Dany hard
against
his
hip. But Dany had pushed him off...
No, it had to be a dream. He couldn't have. He
couldn't...
Oh, but he had. Memory relentless now, flowing into fill the
etched,
corroded chamber of his skull: Himself naked, hard, wanton
[[Dany,
please...]] he'd begged through teeth clenched in
desperation.
And all
around him laughing, hooting, clapping. A circle of naked
cocks
around
the fire and he'd... he'd...
Hangover sludge shifted in his gut—a long, slow, gray wave of
nausea
that heeled him over, dragged him down to the floor. The
blanket
fell
away and naked, on his hands and knees, he vomited—copiously and
violently—to a flat and distant chorus of cheers and boos
that could
have come from nearby cells or from the memories he couldn't shake.
It must have stopped. He must have fallen back into sleep,
because
banging woke him again. This time he was curled up on the icy,
stinking
floor, blanket clutched between his knotted fists.
Clang. Clang. Clank. The scream of parched hinges
as the cage door
swung open.
[[On your feet, soldier.]] The voice was a hammer. Sgt.
Kolya's
hammer. Jesus. Kolya. Alex had already made the
acquaintance
of the
Sergeant's fists and boots.
Get the fuck up! his inner coward shrieked. He pulled the
blanket
up,
tried again to rise. Made it to his knees again. Two
pairs
of polished
black boots under his chin and the whole fucking universe still
spinning, spiraling, coring his braincase like a drill-bit through
clay.
[[Unghh....]] he managed but nothing more and was grateful enough
that
he wasn't spewing on the Sergeant's boots.
[[Dog,]] said the Sergeant. The booted foot pulled back and
Alex
cringed.
[[Leave him,]] said a calm and quiet voice. Another officer's
voice,
but this one was cultured, educated. Smooth as real Stoli in
a lead
crystal tumbler. The booted foot hesitated in mid-arc;
returned
reluctantly to the concrete floor. Alex forced his thousand
pound
head
up, raised his lead-weighted eyes to see the man who had saved him.
He saw—rank and power. Crisply ironed khakis, heavy wool
coat,
peaked cap. The face under the cap was bland, pleasant—the
skin
smooth but not young; the hair light but not gray. Everything
bland and
calm. Only the man's eyes held any intensity—dark blue and
glittering, like sapphires in cream. The eyes gazed down on
him
from a
hundred miles up. The effort of returning the look was
suddenly
too
much. A sick shiver ran through Alex from heels to crown
and he
dropped his head.
[[Disgusting piece of filth,]] spat Kolya. [[If the army
weren't
so
much in need of chaff to toss at the mujahadin...]]
[[Yes, Sergeant,]] said the calm voice. [[Every man can be made
useful.]] A gloved hand came down, lifted Alex's chin.
Alex squeezed
his eyes shut, whimpered at the touch, but no blow came. Then
the hand
released him.
[[Let him sleep this off,]] the calm voice went on. [[When he's
sober,
get him cleaned up and ready for my order.]] There was a
moment's
hesitation, then:
[[Sir,]] said Kolya. [[His punishment...]]
[[Will be attended to,]] the calm voice said, with finality.
And
then
with a clanking and clinking that rattled through his brittle bones,
they left him alone and Alex sank back into the dizzy misery of his
dreams.
He dreamed he was back in America. His old house, his mother's
kitchen. Sunny summer day outside and a breeze billowing the
curtains.
In his dream he was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, for what
he
didn't know. Not impatient, not excited, not scared.
Just
waiting, in
the warm, bright kitchen that smelled faintly of stale tobacco,
knowing
there was nothing he could do.
Seven hours of sleep, a tin cup of cabbage soup and a cold shower
later,
Alex found himself standing in front of a closed oak door, deep
inside
officer country. His fatigues were clean and he'd
shaved.
A little
bruised; a little battered, still shaky as hell, but he was more or
less
on his feet, which was better than he had any right to expect.
What he was doing here, he wasn't entirely sure. Sergeant Kolya
hadn't
said why he was to report to this man, Peskow. Kolya hadn't
said
much
of anything besides who, where and when, but the strained formality
with
which he'd said it put a leaden chill into Alex's bones.
Fucked. Really fucked. If Kolya didn't care enough to
kick
his ass, it
meant he was out of here. Out of Spetznas altogether,
probably,
and on
his way to Afghanistan or to gulag duty in fucking Siberia.
Jesus.
He
pressed the heel of his hand into the ache just above the bridge of
his
nose. Let his fingers trace the hot swell of the knife cut
through
his
buzzed hair, unable to stave off the images that rose up in his
memory.
Idiot. Idiot. Bloody fucking idiot. Faggot whore
to the bone and the
Colonel had been right...had been...
Tears welled, hot under his lids and, suddenly stone-cold furious
with
himself, he blinked them back, scrubbed mercilessly at his
traitorous
eyes and knocked, with more force than he really needed, on the
unprepossessing door.
It opened. The man on the other side was... not a hundred feet
tall.
Alex wasn't sure why that surprised him, but it did. He was
expecting
to be met by a giant. Instead he found himself facing a man
maybe
an
inch shorter than himself; a man of indeterminate middle age, with
reddish-blonde hair and dark blue eyes set in a bland and pleasant
face. He looked fit and relaxed in khaki fatigues, standing
with
an
open book in one hand, eyebrows slightly raised as if in question.
[[Private Arntzen, reporting as ordered...Sir.]] Alex stumbled
a little
over the 'sir'. Kolya had called the man Peskow, but had given
no rank,
and there were no pips or insignia on his kit. Still, Alex
knew
rank
when he saw it. And he saw it here.
[[Comrade Arntzen,]] the man—Peskow—said, pleasantly.
[[Come
in.
I've been expecting you.]] The mildness took him aback—he'd
expected
a sterner welcome.
The room into which Alex stepped was the usual modestly appointed
barrack office. It contained a desk, a couple of chairs, a
file
cabinet, a well-stocked bookshelf. Everything neat and tidy
and
well-worn with use. There was a yellow personnel folder on the
desk and
next to it, a tray on which sat a steaming teapot and two china
cups.
Peskow motioned Alex towards the visitor's chair, and then seated
himself behind the desk.
[[I trust you're feeling better?]] Peskow asked, not unkindly.
Alex
felt embarrassment flush his cheeks and his stomach roiled a little.
[[Yes, sir,]] he lied.
[[Good,]] said Peskow. [[Will you pour us tea?]]
[[Yes, sir.]] Alex poured, shaky handed, but instead of taking
the tea,
Peskow opened the personnel file in front of him and began to peruse
it. The silence stretched. Alex sipped at his own
tea.
It was hot and
felt surprisingly good on his raw throat. Still Peskow didn't
look up
from his reading. The file was thick and Alex's uneasiness
grew.
His
eyes felt grainy and heavy; his mouth was sour. His gut
fluttered
and
rolled.
///Christ, get on with it!// he thought fiercely at the man behind
the
desk. //Ream me. Cut me loose.
Something...//
He didn't even know if
he cared what, anymore. A half a dozen times he opened his
mouth
to say
so, but the words never managed to come. There was something
intimidating about the quiet, pleasant calm. Still, tension
wound
him
like a string and just at the point where he thought he would have
to
speak or die, Peskow closed the file and looked up at him.
[[Do you know who I am?]] Alex hesitated before
answering.
He knew the
man's name, suspected his rank; even thought his face, with its
neutral
expression and sharp eyes, was vaguely familiar. But...
[[No, sir,]] he said, finally. Peskow pursed his lips, nodded,
but
didn't enlighten him. Instead he said:
[[Well, I've learned a lot about you, Comrade Arntzen. Or do
you
prefer
Krycek?]]
[[I—]] said Alex. [[No, Sir.]]
[['Krycek' is your father's name?]]
[[Yes, Sir.]]
[['No, Sir.' 'Yes, Sir',]] Peskow mocked, gently. [[You sound
like a
soldier.]]
[[I am a soldier, Sir,]] said Alex. Peskow quirked an eyebrow
at him.
[[Soldiers follow orders.]] Alex stared down at his lap, then
back up
to meet the cool, blue gaze. Peskow nodded.
[[I've had a good, long look at your file,]] he went on.
[[Excellent
performance records. Marksmanship. Close combat
skills.
Tactical
abilities all of the highest caliber. You certainly have the
makings of
a soldier. But the rest of it...]] He clucked, shook his
head.
[[Drunkenness. Illegal drug use. Fighting. Immoral
behavior. You're
a disgrace to the unit. To the uniform.]]
[[Yes, sir.]]
[[How do you explain that?]]
[[I—-]] he stopped. [[I have no explanation, Sir.]]
Again
that
considering nod. Peskow tapped the edge of the file idly with
his
thumb.
"You're an American," he said, in English.
"I—" Alex began automatically, then forced himself back into
Russian.
[[No, Sir. I'm a loyal Soviet citizen.]]
"Yes, yes. Of course you are," said Peskow, impatiently.
"But you were
born in America. You grew up there. Speak English, Mr.
Krycek."
Sudden iron in the pleasant voice and real fear coursed through
Alex's
flesh.
"Sir...?" he asked. Peskow continued to watch him,
coolly.
His eyes
were very dark, Alex thought, for such a fair-skinned man.
They
were
difficult eyes to look into, more difficult to look away from.
Alex
felt a shiver roll up the muscles of his back.
"I was born in America," Alex said. "I grew up there."
"At a military base, yes? In Albuquerque, New Mexico?"
"I—yes."
"Your father was a ranking officer there. A Colonel.
The
Colonel."
"How do you kno—?"
"Ah ah ah..." said Peskow, warningly. He opened the file again,
frowned
into it, looked up.
"So your father was an American Air Force Colonel," Peskow went on.
"But his youngest son is a now a Soviet citizen and a private in the
Russian army. Remarkable world we live in." And, oh
Christ,
he wasn't
even going to ask, was he. The silence stretched.
And Alex felt cold. So cold. If he unclenched his jaw,
his
teeth would
chatter because he knew now who Peskow was and why he wasn't asking
how
Alex's life had taken such an impossible jag. He wasn't asking
because
he already knew. Because he was one of them. One of
the
shadow
people like his mother's nameless, smoking friend—the one who
took
care of 'problems' like Alex—men who showed one face to the
world and
saved their real faces for the real master in the darkness. Or
masters. How many shadows did it take to run a conspiracy that
encompassed the world's superpowers? Christ, he didn't want to
know.
Had never wanted to know. It was only his own—weakness, his
own
stupidity that had led to his even knowing as much as he did.
And
now...
"Please," he said, softly. Voice gone nearly voiceless with
fear.
"Please what?" Peskow asked, mildly.
"Please give me another chance, sir," Alex said. "I don't
want...."
He
didn't dare put words to it, but he knew now exactly what was at
stake.
//"Be very careful, Alex," the smoking man had said to him
as he stood,
miserable, ticket in hand, to board the plane to Moscow.
"We
will only
tolerate so many mistakes before we cut our losses."//
[[I could be a good soldier, sir,]] he said.
But Peskow was shaking his head.
[[Be that as it may,]] he said. [[I cannot reassign you to this
unit.
Or any other Spetznas unit in the GRU for that matter.
The Soviet Army
will turn a blind eye to almost any naughty behavior among its
special
forces—including a little discreet cocksucking, I might add—
but
some things even they consider...]] he paused, then finished, in
English: "...beyond the pale."
Alex felt the scarlet flush blossom and die in his face.
Embarrassment
turned to sudden fury at his own helplessness:
[[What, then?]] he asked. [[Krasnoyarsk? Novokuznetsk?
Tajikistan?]]
Peskow chuckled, although the laugh didn't quite reach his eyes.
[[I admire your patriotism, Comrade Arntzen, but I'm afraid the
regular
army is out of the question for a young man with your
training.
As are
the Internal Ministries. We don't share our toys with just
anyone.]]
//Then why did you bring me here, you cold-eyed son of a bitch?
Why, if
it's so goddamned hopeless...// He closed his eyes, then
opened
them
abruptly. Peskow was watching him, eyes distant. Cool,
like the night
sky. //...our toys...// A cold thought snaked up Alex's
spine to curl
around his brain like smoke.
[[Your...]] he began—saw a flicker move across the blandness of
Peskow's face, and felt cold again. Burning cold. He was
right, wasn't
he? This was the marker being called; the shadow reaching out
to claim
its own. It slipped around him easily as fog.
"What...will I be doing for you?" he asked. Peskow smiled
approvingly.
"You are a bright boy," he said. "And talented. And the
possibility of
alternative...employment does exist. But the work—our work
—
requires also a certain temperament. A certain ruthless
self-discipline. The ability to follow orders.
"Not exactly your strong suit, Alex." Anger flared at the
jibe.
At
the contempt Alex felt behind the words. If he'd been
drunk
he might
have stood to defend his pride.
//Staying alive is my strong suit, you son of a bitch...//
But
all he
said was: "I'll do whatever it takes."
Peskow said nothing. He sat back in his chair for a moment, and
then,
abruptly got to his feet. Walked around the desk so that he
stood
behind Alex's chair. He was close enough that Alex could feel
his heat,
feel the weight of his presence exerting itself like gravity,
rocking
him back in the chair.
"It might take a lot." Peskow's voice at his ear was soft, a mockery
of
kindness: "Hard work. Courage." Alex shifted
uncomfortably
at the
man's nearness, but did not dare turn his head.
"Sacrifice." A strong, long-fingered hand wrapped around the
back
of
his neck, making him start. Stroke of a thumb at the nape and
Alex
shivered.
"Self control..." He felt dizzy, breathless. Was this a
trick? A
trap? Did Peskow want him to resist? Or respond?
He did neither, held
himself to stillness, until he felt Peskow watching him again.
He
looked up expecting to meet the cool, blue gaze.
It wasn't there. Instead what he saw made him inhale sharply
with
sudden, visceral fear. Peskow's eyes were focused on him with
the
coldly passionate intensity of a hawk stalking prey. For a
moment
Alex
was paralyzed, utterly frozen—unable to look away from the
terrifying
stare. A strange hot shiver moved through him, winding down
around
his
spine to settle heavily in his groin. To Alex's horror, he
heard
himself whimper softly.
Then Peskow blinked—once, twice—and the cold fire was
gone.
With
a gentle shake, Peskow released his neck.
//What happened?// Alex's mind shrieked. //What did he
do?//
But
Peskow was already seating himself behind the desk again, his
face as
bland and pleasant as before, his tone so banal that, when he spoke,
it
took a moment for Alex to pick the sense from the sound.
[[...quarters, Comrade Arntzen,]] Peskow was saying. [[Pack
your
things. I will call for you.]]
And then there was nothing left for Alex to do but mumble, awkwardly:
[[Yes, sir. Thank you, sir...]] and back himself out the door,
and out
into the night to scramble through the empty parade grounds with the
shadows between the light poles reaching out for him as he ran.
The quarter of the compound usually occupied by Unit Spider was
deserted
when Alex finally got there. The MP who let him in told him
the
whole
unit was off on a disciplinary mission and he didn't know when
they'd
be
back. Alex was still cold, still aching from the night
before.
He knew
he should pack up and make himself scarce, but it seemed a strange,
shivery exhaustion had descended upon him.
He decided he could risk a shower, ended up lingering long under the
hot
water, wishing the thunderous spray could wipe his mind of the
cold
hunger in Peskow's eyes. It didn't, and though he shaved in
the
hot
steam and toweled dry, by the time he returned to his billet he was
shivering again.
Back in his room, Alex nervously packed and repacked his kit,
listening
for footsteps to come echoing in the hall. He heard none, and
so Dany's
distinctive Balkan drawl from the doorway caught him off guard.
[[They sending you back to the range, Cowboy?]]
Alex's breath snagged on something in his chest and he turned with
the
shirt he was folding still in his arms.
Tall and rangy, Corporal Danylo Neverov lounged in the doorway—
loose
sprawl of limbs; long nose, full mouth turned up in a cynical
half-smile
that showed too many crooked teeth.
spike21@home.com
Learning to Love the Hawk I
by The Spike
Stockade,
16th Spetsnaz Brigade, Chuchkovo
Moscow Military District, U.S.S.R
October 12, 1983
Learning to Love the Hawk II: Gone One Knows Not Where
