Conviction

Note: All text outlined with * is spoken in Russian.

David sat, staring outward, his mind blank. He was alone. It was too cold for children, too cold for mothers, too cold even for bums to stay out here. David sat, the wind ripping, its fingers tearing at his gray jacket. He did not care. The old, faded Hammer, with its dulled sickle and tiny star worn boldly. When he had first come to the U.S. he had killed a man for questioning his badge, the man was drunk, slurring his words, yelling for the bar to hear, before David had given him a punch, followed by a head butt, that made the man's eyes roll back, his stomach contract, and his breath to cut off in a gasping belch as his sorry life left him. David had spent that night on the playground, sleeping on the slide, his gray coat protecting him from view.

Now, the coat was proudly displayed. A sniper would not have to determine if he was the target, it was clear. David expected, almost would have welcomed a red dot to climb its way up his chest to his eye. It would be a quiet round, probably from a Mossin Nagant, good gun that one. David allowed these thoughts to seep through his head, enjoying the freedom of it. Never, since he had defected, taken money from GRU, killed two code breakers, had he been so free. No more skulking, no more forgetting Mother Russia. Today, David was free.

He stood his back straight. The man he had expected was there, not ten yards from him. The man with the paper. David approached him, smiling.

"*Greetings, Comrade. I assume you know who I am?*" David said, as though he were asking how the man with the paper was feeling.

"*Greetings to you as well, though you will find we no longer call each other 'Comrade'. Yes, I know who you are. Ademska Gerlukavich, Nathaniel Mesquites, Daniel Voyvoda, Alexander Granin, and, most of all, David Sokolov. Former hacker for the KGB intelligence unit, top marks in training, flawless record. Stole two million Rubles from the GRU's department of The People's awareness, killed Yevgeniy Sokolov and Nikolai Sasaski to prevent them from breaking the code you designed to lock out the department from all records and funding. You have since been living here, jumping job to job, until landing as a political columnist, Sharashka. You have run a long time, Mr. Sokolov.*"

"*Indeed I have, and I am ready to stop running."*

"*This means you are willing to hand yourself over to the GRU?*"

"*If I must.*"

"*No.*"

David reeled. He stepped back from the man, dazed as if struck. The man's eyes showed no hint of lies, only conviction, and a small amount of amusement. "*Did you say 'No'?*" David finally managed to say, his voice shaking.

"*Yes, I did, Mr. Sokolov. We have long since made up the funds, altered your code to better suit our needs, and the dead men are all but forgotten. Not even their families know they are dead. After all, they keep calling...”

"*So, you intend to kill me now, and let people think I'm still around?*"

The man with the paper smiled, revealing perfect teeth "*No, Mr. Sokolov. We have found the money in your account, and added to it, a sum of about five hundred-thousand dollars. This is our method of silencing you. Do you have any copies of the code left? If so, give them to me. You will never see me again, or anyone from the KGB. We are as dead as the Union Mother Russia once boasted of, at least to the world. You will forget me, forget the code, donate your profiles to the local authorities, and continue your life as a very rich political columnist.*'

David's voice continued to quiver "*You mean, you dragged this out this long, let me kill a Comrade, drove me almost to insanity with fear, made me distrust everyone I met, only to meet with me, after twenty years, and tell me, that all that time hiding, was WASTED!?*" David's words were slurring, the almost forgotten Russian tumbling in a rush over his tongue, his eyes almost protruding from his head. All that work, all those people he had killed, all for nothing. He reached, gripped the man by his collar, and lifted him into the air.

The man with the paper dropped the paper, extended two fingers, and then shouted "*Halt!*"

David did halt. What he expected had come, a red dot climbed its way, first to his hand, then down his arm, darting around the old Soviet badge on the shoulder, before coming to rest on his eye. David blinked hard, and lowered the man with the paper to the ground. The dot left him.

The man straitened up, picked up his paper, and, brushing it off, said to David "*Well, let's get to your apartment then.*

They walked, not speaking, looking straight ahead. The clouds scudded past, reflecting the dim yellow light of the city back onto itself, bathing the streets in sickly light. David had not realized so much time had passed, that night had already come. He watched men and women walk past, eyes on the ground, faces turned against the wind. A few teens walked by, letting out grunts of displeasure as David and the Man with the paper bumped into them. The men ignored their calls of "'ey, 'ey fucker, whatchoo do dat for, huh? You retarded or sumthin' nigga!?" Let them play their games; imagine their secure world of drugs and joyriding was the edge of civilization, that they were rebelling and in control.

David opened one lock, then the next, then the next, then the next. Soon, six locks had clicked, the door had creaked open, and the lights turned on with a slight 'snick'.

The man with the paper looked about, blinking slightly in the light. "*A very nice place you have here, Mr. Sokolov, especially in such a part of town...” A smile crossed his countenance. Turning, he removed his long coat, revealing a red knitted sweater and blue-jeans, a true spy. "*Now, before I leave, I am going to need your code, in its full form, all copies. I will also need some guarantee that any pictures of me, or any other agents are in my hands, as well as our field agent's badge. You may keep his equipment, I just need his badge. Third, I will need you to remove your records, which I assume are here,*" he said, tapping the cabinet with his foot "*and give them to an authority that will take them out of your reach. I cannot tell you why. After that, you are a normal man. You may drop Sharashka, and be yourself again, good deal, no?*"

David looked at this man, smiling up at him, hands knitted, elbows on the armrests, legs extended out, one tucked over the other, head graying, going to bald, skin tanned, worn, having seen many years. He noted the hands, knotted with veins, worn with calluses, yet, there was something odd about them. David looked at his own hands; they too were worn, tan, and calloused. He did not have the man's veins, not yet, but there was something else different. David looked back at the man, and asked "*How many people have you killed?*"

The man with the paper looked back at him, his smile unwavering. "*None, Mr. Sokolov. I have never killed. If I had allowed my ring finger to join my index and middle finger while you acquainted me with the view of your glowering visage, I would have committed my first murder. I have never killed, which puts you ahead by at least six, if our information is correct.*"

David looked again. The man's hands, still knitted, were unblemished. They had their marks, their scars, their liver spots, but they were unmarred in another sense. The man had no bloodlust, no desire to kill, and no reason to kill. David backed away. This man, tiny though he was, aged though he was, was the greatest threat David had ever seen. David knew the job the man worked, the position he held, he would have been killing every day, but he had not. His method was nonviolent.

David realized something then. His life had been wrong. He had lived by killing, devoted himself to ideals he had not understood. Russia, America, what were they? Countries? Ideals? David had never questioned his place in them, or the places of the men whose lives he had ended. Turning, he drew out a single laserdisc from his shelf, and gave it to the Man, who tucked it into his paper. Then, he pulled out the files, and laid them on the counter. He reached into his pocket, and drew out the glasses he had worn that morning. He gave them to the man with the paper, before going to the bedroom, and taking the pictures and badge of the agent he killed in the alley. All of these vanished into the paper.

He took the box of files, and let the man with the paper lock up as they left. They walked, in silence, to the police station, where they left the files. Perhaps they could be of use there.

The man with the paper turned to David "*Well, Mr. Sokolov, our business is done, I think.*"

David gripped him on the shoulder. "*No, I have one last thing to do, while you are here. Walk with me.*"

They walked, down past Jupiter apartments, past the package store, past the burned-out church, until they reached the playground. Here, David removed his gloves, biting back a gasp as the cold raced up his arms. He removed the blackout gloves, and turned to the man with the paper.

"*Here, put these on.*"

Perplexed, the man drew off his own gloves, and David saw, once again, those knotted, bony, unblemished hands. He waited for the man to draw the gloves on fully; they were a little big for him, before reaching into a pocket, and drawing out the Makrov. He placed the gun on the ground, and kicked it to the Man with the paper. The man picked it up, a look of comprehension on his face.

"*You know you're being stupid, right? You know we put that money there in your account to ensure this didn't happen?*"

David nodded "*Yes, but now I'm free. For once, I'm free from fear, free to choose my fate, and I choose this. I have seen enough of America, and I know all there is to know of Russia. There is nothing more for me here, only regrets, for a life I could have lived, instead of merely existing in fear, killing when convenient, it has to come to a close sometime, and I choose now. You have never killed a man, I know, do you wish to not do this?*"

The man with the paper leveled the gun. "*I do not, but if you request it, I will.*"

"*I do request it. Consider this off the record. Unlike many who die at the hands of the KGB, I have chosen the time and place, something I have been unable to do at any time in by life until now. I have one last request though...*"

"*And that is, Mr. Sokolov?*"

"*My money, I wish all of it to go to Mr. Akimoto, the noodle-stand owner. He has grandchildren that need to go through college, and I want him to have a good life.*"

"*Very well, I'll arrange it. Are you ready?*"

"Da," was all David said.

"Dosvedania, Comrade."

A single shot rang out.