Frank Walton was dying. He had suspected it for some time,
but only last month his suspicions had been confirmed. And
while he would have preferred to stay on this earth
longer, he had accepted his fate just as he'd faced and
dealt with every other adversity that had been thrust at
him.
Deal with it, then get past it. That was his motto, or at
least it had been until now. He would deal with his
upcoming demise later. For now, upper-most in his mind had
been the need to go home — to go back to the place of his
birth and see the people and hear the language and the
music. Just once. Before it was too late.
Only he couldn't. To them, he was already dead.
Still, he'd had to know if what he'd done had been worth
it. He'd needed to look at it again with a fresh view.
Maybe then he would know if it had all been worthwhile.
But to do that, he'd had to leave Montana for the state of
New York, then head to Brooklyn and Brighton Beach. It was
as close as he could possibly come to his homeland — to
eat the food of his childhood and hear the language of the
place he'd called home. Now, after two weeks in Brighton
Beach, he'd come to a grudging acceptance that it was too
late to turn back time.
He exited the small café with a smile on his lips. The
warm, dark-red borscht and savory bread he'd just had for
his lunch had reminded him of the meals his mother had
served during the short winter days and long cold nights
in his Russian homeland. The food had been sparse but the
love within his household overflowing.
Even though the September day was almost balmy, he knew if
he would but close his eyes, he could recall every nuance
of that time: his father sitting near the fireplace with
his musette, smoking cigarettes that he'd rolled on his
own and sipping vodka between songs, he and his brothers
and sisters dancing wildly, mimicking the high kicks of a
Cossack dance while his mother's laughter rang out above
the din.
Ah, God. He'd given it up — all of it — and for a higher
cause. At least that was what he'd told himself for the
past thirty-odd years. But now that he'd come to the end
of his days, he was starting to question whether the
sacrifices had been worth it. What had he accomplished?
What had any of them accomplished?
A trio of gulls squawked noisily as they circled overhead,
breaking Frank's concentration. Squinting against the
afternoon sun, he tilted his head, anxious not to miss
their feats of derring-do as they dive-bombed the beach
beyond the boardwalk. One did not see seagulls in Montana.
The sun was warm against his balding head. He inhaled
briefly, then exhaled on a sigh, for the first time in his
life, wishing he believed in a power higher than that of
mortal man. Sunshine could not reach where he was bound.
A woman leaned out from a third-story window and yelled
down into the street. A man just coming out of the
building paused and looked up, then called back to her,
their voices mingling with the sounds of traffic and
people and the noise of the day. Steam from beneath the
streets rose upward from the sidewalk grates, blending
with the guttural mingling of vowels and consonants that
made up the Russian language. It was all music to Frank
Walton's ears. He wanted to shout back — to sing the songs
of his youth and dance until there was no more breath in
his body. But he'd given up that part of his life too long
ago. Not even now — when he was so close to his deathbed —
could he take the chance and reveal his true self.
So he thrust his hands in his pockets and moved on down
the street, satisfied for the moment just to be in this
place.
Vasili Rostov cursed the ache in his knee as he stepped
into an alcove away from the wind to light a cigarette.
When the end caught and the tobacco began to burn, he took
a deep drag and then held it, waiting for the nicotine to
kick in. It came quickly, wrapping around his senses and
easing the tension in his mind. He exhaled slowly, letting
the smoke out through his nose as he turned. The old man
he'd been trailing was still in sight. So he took another
drag from the cigarette before he began to move, always
staying at least a block behind. As he walked, his gaze
moved from window to window, eying the opulence and
abundance of that which was America. Not for the first
time, he thought of staying. After the job was finished,
of course. He loved his homeland, but the constant chaos
in the government was disgusting to him — not like the old
days. Then he'd been one of the youngest and best of
Russia's finest agents, revered in higher circles, and
proud of his KGB status and the strength in his body.
Women had fawned over him. Other agents had envied him.
His superiors had depended on him.
Now he did nothing. They called it retirement. For Rostov,
it was like being sent to an early grave. Even though he
was in his mid-sixties, he was still strong. His belly was
hard and flat, and the years had added character to his
face rather than age.
Ironically, it wasn't age that had sidelined him. It was
his inability to keep up with the ever-changing modes of
technology. These days, a good portion of the spy game
depended upon understanding everything from lasers to
computer chips, which left him out of the running. So his
days were spent in taverns, reliving the past with others
of his ilk, and the nights in his one-room flat, watching
government-run television programs on a twelve-inch black-
and-white set with the scent of a neighbor's boiling
cabbage and potatoes drifting in from the crack beneath
his front door. Communism had been good to him and his
family. It had made his country strong. With the coming of
democracy, his world had crumbled as surely as the Berlin
Wall. For several years afterward, people had stood in the
streets selling personal belongings just to keep from
starving. Homelessness had become rampant, and the long
lines at bread bakeries and supermarkets were made even
more tragic by the fact that there had been little food
available to buy for those who still had money.
Now things were better, but they would never be the same.
Democracy was as obscene to him as a four-letter word, and
now the Russian Mafia had more power than the government,
He'd learned to adjust, because it was what he did best.
He'd settled into a routine that, while less than
stimulating, was more luxurious than what he'd known as a
child.
And then a week ago there had come a knock at his door.
He'd opened it to find four dour-looking men who'd told
him to pack a suitcase. Within hours, he'd been briefed,
given American money and a cell phone, and put on a plane
bound for New York City. The reason was almost comical to
Rostov. He was back in action for the simple reason that
he was part of the past, He'd come to America for one
reason only. To find a ghost.
Now, here he was, tailing a stoop-shouldered old man with
a fondness for borscht. He didn't look like a ghost to
Rostov, but from the color of his complexion, he wasn't
far from becoming one.
When the old man stopped at a crosswalk, Rostov paused,
too, turning toward the windows of the jewelry shop by
which he was standing. To the passersby, it would appear
that his interest was on the display of rubies and pearls,
but in truth, the window was his mirror to the sidewalk
across the street.
He stood until the light turned green and the Walk sign
began to flash, then he pivoted quickly. Dodging traffic,
he bolted across the street, losing himself in the stream
of pedestrians through which the old man was moving.
He knew the man's name was Frank Walton. Supposedly a
retired botanist from Braden, Montana, who had come to
Brighton Beach for a holiday. But there was a particular
reason why Vasili Rostov had been yanked out of retirement
and sent on this mission, and the picture in his pocket
was part of the mystery, Tonight he would meet this old
man face-to-face. If what Rostov suspected was true, his
name would once again be spoken with respect.
Frank laid his safety razor by the sink and then peered at
his face in the foggy mirror before pronouncing himself
shaved. His belly hurt — part of the growing cancer eating
away at his inner parts — yet he was determined not to let
it ruin the upcoming evening. The hotel concierge had told
him about a wonderful restaurant only a few blocks from
the hotel that offered a floor show with dinner. The
chance to hear more music from his homeland was too
enticing to miss. Ignoring the gnawing pain he swiped a
towel across his face, splashed on some pine-scented
aftershave and went to finish dressing.
Tomorrow he would be going back to Montana — back to his
friends and to Isabella. He smiled as he thought of her —
dark, laughing eyes and a heart-shaped face — the daughter
he'd never had. She called him Uncle, just as she did all
of Samuel's friends.
Samuel Abbott was Isabella's father. He'd been their
leader from the beginning. A frown turned his smile upside
down as he glanced at the phone. They hadn't wanted him to
leave Braden, and yet he hadn't been able to bring himself
to tell them why. They didn't know about the cancer. He
would tell them later — when he could no longer conceal
the pain.
He glanced again at the phone. He should really call and
let them know he was coming home tomorrow, but then he
looked at the clock and changed his mind. It was getting
late, and if he didn't hurry, he would be late for his
reservation. He didn't want to miss the start of the show.
Shrugging off the thought, he told himself it wouldn't
really matter. He would be home by this time tomorrow, and
then he could talk to his heart's content.
A few minutes later he was in the hotel lobby, then out on
the street. More than a dozen people were curbside,
waiting for cabs. He frowned, realizing he should have
called ahead for a cab, and then looked at his watch to
check the time, If he waited much longer he would be late.
The restaurant was about twenty blocks away, which, in his
weakened state, might as well have been miles, yet he
opted to walk.
It was a fine September evening. Traffic was brisk, The
air had cooled since sunset, making the walk more
pleasant. Obviously he wasn't the only one who thought so.
The sidewalk traffic was as busy as that in the well-lit
streets. He walked with his head up and his shoulders
back, and for a time he let himself believe he was young
and strong — and home.
About five blocks from his destination, he heard someone
call out a name. At first, it didn't register, and he kept
on walking. But then he heard it again.
Vaclav Waller. Someone had yelled the name Vaclav Waller.
He stumbled, then froze — afraid to turn around, afraid
not to. Before he could move, a man stepped out of the
alley to his right. The man spoke again, and only then did
Frank realize the man was speaking to him in Russian.
"I'm sorry," he said, pretending ignorance. "Were you
speaking to me?"
This time the answer came back in perfect English.
"What do you think, old man?"
When Vasili Rostov stepped into the light, Frank Walton
shuddered. He didn't know him, but he knew his kind, He'd
seen that cold, passionless gaze far too many times in his
youth not to know the kind of man he was facing. And with
recognition came the knowledge that they'd found him —
after all these years, when he was almost at the end of
his life.
"I think you've made a mistake," Frank muttered, and began
to walk away. He'd taken only three steps when the man
grabbed his arm.
"No mistake," Rostov said, speaking Russian again, "We
talk."
Before Frank could call out for help, the man stuck a
knife to his throat and forcibly pulled him into the
darkened alley. Still speaking in Russian, the man lowered
his voice and told Frank to keep quiet, then increased the
pressure of the blade against Frank's throat.
A sudden stinging sensation was all Frank needed to know
that the man had drawn blood. Fear momentarily stilled his
voice, but it was followed by sudden anger. He might be
old and dying, but he would not be threatened — not now,
and not by the likes of a man such as this.
"I know who you are," the man said.
Frank answered in English. "I don't know what you're
saying."
The sting against his throat became pain.
"Don't lie to me, old man. I knew you in Minsk. I was
assigned to guard you at a medical symposium. You were
born and raised in Georgia and educated in Moscow. You are
Vaclav Waller. You were nominated for a Nobel Prize in
1969 and reported to have died in a plane crash off the
southern coast of the United States in 1970."
Frank stifled a groan. He didn't know how this had
happened, but he could only blame himself. Someone here
must have recognized him. He had come to Brighton Beach to
pay homage to his roots and instead had brought down the
fragile house of cards that he'd built for himself.
"What do you want?" Frank asked. "I have money. Take my
wallet. It's in my coat pocket."
Rostov cursed. "I do not want your money, old man. I want
the truth."
Frank blinked. This time the man had spoken in English
again. Was he starting to buy his story, or was he just
playing along?
"I do not know the truth of which you speak," Frank
said. "Just take my money and let me go. I don't want
trouble."
At that moment a car sped by outside the alley.
Behind it the sound of approaching sirens could be heard,
and Rostov's hold tightened.
Frank saw how the sirens made the big man antsy. The
police were obviously after someone else, but maybe he
could make this work to his advantage.
"The police are coming," he said. "Someone saw you drag me
into this alley. Just let me go and I won't tell. I am an
old man, I don't want any trouble."
"Your trouble is just beginning," Rostov said. "You don't
have to talk to me. You can talk to my superiors . . .
when we get back to Moscow."
Frank saw him reach toward his pocket with one hand. He
knew the drill. Inside there would be a hypodermic syringe
filled with some sort of drug that would render him
unconscious. It only took a moment for the decision to be
made. Yes, he'd wanted to go home once more before he
died, but not like this. He was going to die anyway. Now
was as good a time as any.
Before Rostov knew what was happening, Frank grabbed his
hand and lunged forward, plunging the knife blade into his
own chest.
Rostov grunted in surprise and took a sudden step
backward, but it was too late. The damage was already
done.
"What have you done?" he cried, as Frank Walton slumped to
the ground.
Copyright (c) 2002 Dinah McCall