Return

The Man with the Paper looked at the crumpled form in front of him. The blood running silently down his face, the slight dilation of the eyes as the life behind them ebbed away, flowing with the blood from the hole in his forehead. The Man with the Paper smiled. A true Russian, his death having meaning for another life.

Akimoto would be pleased with the unexpected money, he would eventually forget his young Russian friend, and life would go on. He would leave this city, indulge his grandchildren, perhaps try and expand his noodle business somewhere else. The Man with the Paper smiled at the thought, an old Japanese man, given a new lease on life from the boy who now lay dead.

A siren screeched through the night, which before had been silent, but for the rain. The Man with the Paper turned, at the other end of the park, near the playground, he saw movement. He tucked the gun into his paper and walked over, briefly stepping into a puddle to remove any blood. The sirens grew louder, the red lights of an ambulance, combined with the blue of a police car suddenly blinded him as both raced around the corner. Men ran forward. The Man with the Paper stepped back, his eyes widening slightly, how could these simple law enforcers have learned…?

His fear was short lived; the men were running to the slide, where two forms were crouched. One was lifted, and the Man with the Paper recognized the fortune teller as the red light of the ambulance fell on her tired face. The file could be closed on her then. Others were present, the cop, he would be transferring soon, the couple, skipping town on a bus, it would seem. The Man with the Paper knew them all, having read David’s files.

He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a single greyhound ticket, this was his bus. He clambered aboard; waved away the driver’s offered hand as he gripped the railing. Might as well pretend to be the frail old man so many took him to be. He wheezed a little, deciding to play the part up; he might as well have fun. He climbed into one of the deep seats, rainwater still running from his shoes and coat. He covertly slid the gun into an inner-coat pocket, and then looked around. The couple sat a few rows behind him, on the opposite side. His eyes briefly settled on them, and they looked up in the manner of people who are aware they have caught someone’s interest. He gave them a small smile and nod, and then turned to took out the window.

The ambulance was pulling away, lights now off. The cop was standing, looking at the slide, letting the rain pour over him, lost in thought it would seem. A dark figure was being escorted from the scene as the police began rolling up the yellow tape, it must have been the first person on the scene. The drunk vomited into the bushes, he would regret his drinking in the morning.

The Man with the Paper pulled out a phone, and hit the two key, it rang only once before he got a reply.

“Da?”

“*supervisor, mission accomplished. Secondary rout taken, materials secured, requesting collection team dispatched to subject’s dwelling to retrieve secondary objectives.*”

“*Confirmed, dispatch en-rout. Anything else to report?*”

“*Yes, I would like the subject’s total funds and liquid able assets transferred to the custody of Jiro Akimoto.*”

“*Confirmed. Why?*”

“*Last request of the subject.*”

“*He detected you!?*”

“*Almost instantly. He was trained in the same system as me, he knows all the tricks, I’m not too surprised. No, I went with the secondary option at his request.*”

“*At his!?... Very well, transport awaits you in Cleveland, meet the dispatch team there and give them a full briefing, then report to your commander once you return to Moscow. The transfer of funds will take place as-per your request.*”

“*Thank you…*”

The phone cut off.

“…comrade.”

The Man with the Paper looked around, nobody was looking at him. He settled back into his chair, opened his paper, and began reading it for the first time... A column caught his eye.

“Sharashka…”

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.

Revelations

David glanced out the window. Another Cold day. Rising, he went through his usual morning routine, checking the dresser, the bed, and the computer, just to be sure. He approached the door, and bending, tools in hand, began switching the locks. Each lock made a loud click, and he was briefly blinded by a burst of light and a blast of cold air.

As he pulled out the final lock, and readied the replacement, movement on the other side caught his eye. Looking through the keyhole, he could clearly see a man, middle-aged, blue-coated, Grey-haired, sitting on the bench across the street. It wasn't that the man was doing anything in particular, he seemed to be perfectly at ease. No, it was the fact that this man was so at east, so at home on this cold, dirty street, that David felt his stomach turn. He had never seen this man before. He went to his desk, and drew out the neighborhood file from the hidden compartment behind his computer. Thumbing through it, he passed the bum who lived in the tunnel, that man with the dog who lived in that burned-down church, the couple who's marriage was falling apart, damn drunk he was, but this middle-aged man was nowhere to be seen.

David looked out the keyhole again. The man was reading the Washington post. David quickly calculated, if today was what he thought it was, his column should be in that issue. If the man drew conclusions, David was as good as dead.

Suddenly, a blue blur obscured the keyhole, the doorbell rang. David jumped back in terror, before looking through the eyepeice, and saw the blue-capped form of a mailman. David quickly inserted the lock, twisted it, and proceeded to unlock the door. The mailman gave David a practiced smile.

"Package for you, Mr. Berner," he said cheerefully, using one of David's pseudonyms.

As David took the thin cardboard, he felt the man's eyes on him. By the time the mailman turned away, he was looking back at his paper.

David, on the pretense of reading the package, raised his hand to adjust his glasses, and with a twitch of his ring finger, a minute click was heard, and the man was forever in David's archive.

David left the package unopened on his counter, it was his pay from the Post, he knew it. What he needed to do was to leave, but if he left from the front, the man would be able to follow him. Leave unobserved, and they would know he was on to them.

There was no choice, David had to act. He drew up his coat, placed his wallet in one pocket, the Makrov in the other, drew the blackout gloves on before donning his normal ones, and set out the door. His knife remained strapped to his chest, as it had been all night.

Cars trundled past, cautious of ice. A Bus pulled up, a man limped out, his eyes looking about before settling on a storefront. David watched him go, aware the whole time of the man with the paper’s eyes on his back. He walked a little slower, don’t let him catch on. He wondered, the rapper… the man that was reported at the scene, “looked like he stepped out of a Russian mafia show” or something like that, the paper had said.

David’s mind raced. If the man with the paper had anything to do with that, what would it mean? GRU? KGB? They were all after him now. He had been found. He Knew what he had to do, if that were the case. He had planned for this, but, somehow, had never expected he would have to do it. First, the park.

And I'm not sick, but I'm not well...

The man crumpled, choking and gasping. The knife's blade protruding out of his neck. The hiss of liquid under pressure swiftly drowned out the sounds of his struggles, his last breath a drawn out sigh as if it were a balloon with a slow leak. David stepped back, his face impassive, and the blood spray settled into a fine red mist atop the refuse of the alleyway.

Once the struggles had stopped, he reached into the man's jacket, snapping the chord that reached up to the thin patch that was almost indistinguishable from his fair skin. Reaching further, he drew out a small patch from an inner pocket. the black bat on the blue globe stared back at him. "GRU," he spat. "You'd think SPETSNAZ would be more subtle." Stooping, he donned the man's blackout gloves, he removed the broken wire, the recording equipment, the minuscule camera, the long knife, the Markov, anything that could implicate Russia. When his search was complete, he pulled the knife blade from the man's artery, the sickly gasp of air that accompanied it shot a spurt of blood onto the stolen gloves. David cursed in disgust. Wiping the blood from the blade with a handkerchief, he reattached the blade to it's hilt.

One last chore to do. With a disheartened sigh, David pulled out several of his own forged documents he had been planning to switch to at a later date, and slipped them into the bloodstained jacket. The man was now Nicholas Ivanovitch, store clerk, 32, nondescript, no family, just bought an apartment on the east-side. Nobody would miss him. A few store coupons and a half empty diet-coke later, and he was just another mugging gone bad. Pocketing the $200, David walked away. Russia, the city authorities, nobody would ever know Nicholas was even born. The KGB would see to that. At least they had standards. Sending a kid, what were they thinking in GRU?

David cracked an eye open, blinking back the sleepy veil that hung over his sight. The room solidified, the nightstand thrown into sharp relief. With a moan, he lifted his tired arm, the hairs bristling as they came into contact with the chill air. He cursed fluently in Russian. On a day like today, the pipes would surely be frozen. Never had to worry about that in Stalingrad, where old comrades were payed to sit and watch the public's water pipes for just this reason. Stretching, David pulled off his sweat pants, followed by his boxers, before quickly replacing them, of course he'd put on clean ones the night before, Tupoumno. Donning faded jeans, a black leather jacket that had seen better days, a wool-lined cap, and his grandfather's trench coat, David stepped out of the apartment.

The snow on the stoop crunched loudly under his boots, giving easily under his weight. There would be accidents today, the road was covered in a thin sheet of ice that gleamed as the sun hit the asphalt and lit up the road like a stage. At this thought David glanced over at the Royal, he'd never liked the place. Too easy to be trapped underground, with no place to run.

With a quick sweep of his feet, he cleared the walkway of snow, the wet cement looked up resentfully at the sky, as if berating it for depositing its frozen excrement upon it. David quickly dismissed such thoughts. Cement could not emote. It could not resent or regret or even think. It was cement, and to think otherwise was foolish. He could not afford to be foolish. He glanced around, nobody. He quickly sprinted across the street, landing heavily on the opposite sidewalk as he leaped over the ice-patch in the road. Yes, there would be accidents today.

As David entered the coffee shop, he glanced around. The blind man who lived under the bookstore, the kid typing away at his laptop about godknowswhat. Nothing terribly suspicious. He felt no eyes on him as he approached the counter. The servers where chatting away, not a care in the world. A glance into the tip jar made David's eyes widen. Who the hell put a ten in a tip jar? A jingle announced the departure of the blind man and his dog, now accompanied by another man with a perturbed look. David glanced around, his pulse quickening. he slapped a five down onto the counter, making the display of muffins and bagels rattle, before dashing to the door and throwing it open. The two men and the dog had entered the tunnel. David sighed. He'd thought... no. He was being paranoid again. His hand left the coat, sliding away from his hip. He returned to the counter, nobody had noticed.

Sipping his coffee, David walked by the Liquor store. He had enough to keep him up for now, it wasn't as if he was a heavy drinker. Drinking dulled the wits, made you an easy target. At the thought , David pulled out a cigarette. These were better here. Real tobacco. Placing the end in his mouth, David walked on.

People, or shapes of people walked by, their forms bulky with padded clothes in faded pastels, blues, pinks and reds. The wind wiped his face, forcing him to pocket the unlit cigarette and cover his face. Beards do help with cold, but wind cuts right through them. He passed many people as he walked. The old bum who lived in the tunnel was sitting near the playground, women in long coats walked carefully towards the theater, a disgruntled man ambled past, grumbling about damn pakis or something like that.

Little Ireland flew by, green lights flashing, red hair blowing in the wind, a cheerful grin on many faces shown through picture windows as men sipped, gulped and chugged at tankards brimming with foamy amber liquid. The shadows disappeared, the glare vanished. Parked cars sent shocking bursts of white light arcing across the street as David walked, his mind racing with a thousand possibilities, all leading to his sudden inexplicable death. But already he knew. Today was not the day, nor tomorrow. "I will die next week." David decided. That in mind, he snatched up a copy of the Washington post and read back to his house, barely taking notice of the cars rusting on Bentley street, or the statue of Mary glimmering with icicles. They liked Sharashka's latest column. They would have in the New York Times, and his other one in the Wall Street Journal. Not that anyone here would care.

David wondered what sharashka was? Was he a rich man, the son of some lucky and clever stock-broker chased out by the Czars? Or was he middling professor? Old and unsatisfied, his classes small, his office bare, his suit in dire need of cleaning? What was Sharashka?

David's Evening

David looked outside. The setting sun glimmered faintly as it descended before lighting briefly upon the cross that stood astride the steeple of the Catholic Church. His eyes narrowed, the sun's red glow briefly passing over his eyes before it sank behind the smog cloud that consistently obscured the rest of the city from view. He sighed, turning back to his computer. The Washington Post was expecting his review. "No rest for the weary." He said, before hunching over the black keyboard.

His fingers moved like spiders, darting this way and that, the keys giving off a satisfying click with each twitch of his hands. Worn letters released their captive dyes, resigned to the constant friction that played over them, day in and day out. A pause came, the keys suddenly rendered voiceless, the flow of words choked as though by a rocky dam.

David reached up, his fingers fumbling in a box of cigarettes. A long white body emerged, perfectly smooth, its cylindrical form supple and yielding in David's hands, unblemished before his tired eyes. He had no lighter. He never bothered with smoking the things; he just liked the sensation of having them in his mouth, the small distraction that dispelled his restless energy, allowing him to focus on the job at hand. With the careless ease that comes with long practice, David tossed the green and white box over his shoulder, letting out a grunt of satisfaction as he heard the heavy metallic clunk of his garbage can as the cigarette box was devoured by a world of used tissues, apple seeds, and coffee cups.

The Doorbell rang, David looked up, his hand slipping into the back pocket as his eyes fell on the door. He rose, his back slowly unkinking from his prolonged time in the chair. With a quick, silent flexing of the lips, he sent the cigarette flying to join the box from whence it came in the trash bin. His hand slipped from his pocket, the firm leather in his hand held firm under his grip. The doorbell rang again. He took three steps, and was at the door. With a slight squeak, it swung open, to reveal a short smiling Asian man standing in the glow of a streetlight on David's clean-swept landing. "Mr. Akimoto!" exclaimed David "Thanks for bringing this over. I know it's getting near closing time."

"Too crose David! And I keep terring you, carr me Jiro! You caught me just when I was crosing up! Very good thing you aren't picky about what I give you!" Mr. Akimoto said in a loud voice, his small dark eyes widening as his diatribe went on. "You lucky we're not in west like my uncre. He would've served you an almadirro if you carred this rate!" At this point he closed his mouth, smiled up at David and adopted a kinder look. "You getting arong? I hear your rated corrum didn't get such a good review."

David sighed, accepting the plastic bag Mr. Akimoto pressed into his hands. "Yes sir, I've had a bit of writer's block. Ideas are in my head, but it's hard getting them onto the screen..." He shrugged and then laughed "But these should help!" he said happily, giving the bag a small shake. The light ran over the bag's white surface, the large red "THANK YOU"s flashing as a determined gleam of the setting sun burned through the fog to land, shimmering, on the plastic surface. David flicked open the leather wallet he held in his other hand, and asked "How much for this one?"

"Seven dorrah, seven dorrah!" exclaimed Mr. Akimoto, a serious look coming onto his face, before he gave a high cackle and said "Take it David, do you werr. I don't need the stuff much now. And you my favorite customer too! Just don't ret my other favorite customers hear I terr you that!" With a grace belying his age, Mr. Akimoto skipped down the steps to the side walk, tossed a small salute to David, and walked briskly down the street.

David smiled after the old man, before glancing around and shutting the door. Placing the bag on the small table next to the door, he turned to the lock, then hooked the latch, fastened the deadbolt, and turned the key in the knob. Removing the bag from its stand, he breathed in, appreciating the smell of fresh eel and Chinese cabbage. A gush of steam wafted the scents towards him before spreading the appetizing fog across the room. David crossed to the window, drew the shutters, and sat down to enjoy his meal.