"That was when the ones
who smiled
Were the dead, glad to be at rest."
--Akhmatova, Requiem
At
the outer gate of the fortress, Ocelot glanced back at the sheer cliffside. During the day, the little ledge of stone
blended into the mountainside. It was only in the early morning that the sun
threw the shadows just right so it could be seen.
Ocelot
started across the courtyard, back toward the fortress, drawing a cigarette
from inside his coat.
* *
*
The
sky was still the cold no-color of dawn when Ocelot crossed the courtyard to
smoke. He always went as far as he could, out to where the electric fence
crackled in the damp morning air. Cold stung his ears. Ocelot ran a gloved hand
back through his cropped blond hair and wondered, not for the first time, if
growing it out would keep him a little warmer.
He
could have slept a little longer, but Ocelot was training himself to rise
early. An extra hour to himself, before anyone else
was awake, might come in handy some day.
These
mornings, he was up promptly at five. He forced back the blankets; struggled,
still half-blind with sleep, into his Spetznaz
uniform; and fumbled his lighter into his breast pocket. He walked out past the
rows of jeeps, spinning his gun lazily around one finger. By the time he had
made it to the edge of compound and back, the urge to crawl under the covers
again had lost its bite.
It
was hard work; it was trying. That was why he did it.
Ocelot
breathed a sigh, and a white cloud that was as much smoke as it was his own
frozen breath curled up into the broken sky. He smoked slowly, savoring it like
a visit from a lover.
Long,
white clouds sprawled above him, bloodied by the rising sun. He followed them
with his eyes, to the point where they tapered out into the horizon. Like
lace-gloved hands, beckoning him continually westward… One day, he knew, he
wouldn't be able to resist them any longer.
"What
are you staring at?"
Ocelot
started; one hand snapped to the gun at his hip. He knew, even before he had
finished
turning around, that he'd never forgive anyone who was able to sneak up on him
like that.
"Aww, did I scare you?"
The
young man was leaning back against the hood of an artillery vehicle. His arms
were folded, legs crossed primly at the ankle. He was dressed like an officer.
When he stepped forward, rolling like a cat onto the balls of his feet, the sun
flashed off his tall black boots and the three little stars pinned to his
shoulder boards.
Ocelot
scowled, snatching his cigarette from the corner of his mouth. He dropped it to
the ground, grinding it out beneath the heel of his boot. "What are you
doing there?"
"Me?"
The young major tipped his hat off his head, shaking out his blond hair. The
corner of his lips twitched into a smile. "Adamska
Ivanovitch, don't you know who I am?"
"Raikov…"
Ocelot muttered. He'd seen the Major around, but they had never spoken. He caught Raikov watching him sometimes, so
brazenly that Ocelot could feel the heat of his stare on the back of his neck.
But if he ever turned, if their eyes ever met, Raikov's lips would quirk into a
weird smile; he would toss his hair, would turn and vanish.
But
this time, Raikov stepped forward, lifting a pale hand as though to drag the
backs of his fingers over Ocelot's cheek. Ocelot recoiled
a step, and one hand snapped up around Raikov's wrist, stilling him. "What
do you want?"
Raikov
raised an eyebrow, and laughed. A soft, indulgent laugh that immediately made
Ocelot wish they weren't touching.
"Your
collar," Raikov said. A slight tug freed his wrist. "I want to fix
your collar." Ocelot fought the urge to turn away as Raikov gently folded
down the side of his collar and straightened the red scarf around his neck.
"There," he murmured. "Now we can talk."
Ocelot
opened his mouth to reply, and realized that he'd been holding his breath, as
though afraid of any air that had already touched Raikov's lips. "Who are
you?"
Raikov
smiled. "Why don't you just call me… Eva? Adam and Eva, the perfect match." He smoothed Ocelot's
collar again, then let his hand drift slowly away, down Ocelot's chest.
"I'll be your backup."
"My backup?" Ocelot shook his head. "What the hell are you
talking about? Who are you working for?"
"Guess."
Ocelot
narrowed his eyes. "Are you KGB?"
"Good
guess." His hand stopped when it reached Ocelot's belt, and Raikov turned
his wrist, pressing his palm flat against Ocelot's stomach.
"Impossible.
The KGB knows I work alone."
"Not
this time." Raikov flicked his wrist, hooking two fingertips in Ocelot's
belt. He jerked him forward a step, so for a moment they touched. "Don't
worry, Adam. I'm good for lots of things. And I'm completely at your
disposal."
"Gah!" Ocelot gasped, crossing an
arm up between their bodies to shove Raikov back. "I don't care what your
orders are. I want you to stay out of my way."
Raikov
stumbled back. The heel of his boot struck the tire of one of the artillery
vehicles, and he slumped back against the hood, bracing himself with his hands.
"That's a hell of a way to greet a comrade. I was just trying to be
friendly."
"I
don't care." Ocelot raked a gloved hand back through his hair. "I
don't need any help from the KGB." He started back toward the compound,
stepping wide around Raikov, watching him warily as he passed.
Raikov
shrugged, giving the front of his uniform coat a tug to straighten it.
"You're playing a dangerous game. You just come see me if you need someone
to take some of the pressure off, okay?"
Ocelot
shook his head. He was relieved when Raikov didn't move to follow him; when he
turned to glance over his shoulder, the man had vanished. Ocelot drew his gun,
spinning it thoughtfully as he walked slowly back to the compound.
* *
*
As
he walked slowly back to the compound, Ocelot drew the gun from the holster at
his right hip. He spun it once, slowly, then stopped.
His
joints ached, and the gun felt clumsy in his hand.
Ocelot
paused, lifted the pistol to look it over. It hadn't changed. Nothing had
changed, except for him. And he sighed, holstering the gun again as he started
back toward Groznyj Grad.
He
passed a pair of sentries stationed in the yard who wore the familiar colors of
the Gurlukovitch army. They saluted him wearily; one
stifled a yawn. They had worked through the night and were nearing the end of
their shift, but Ocelot knew that wasn't the only reason neither of them spoke
to him as he passed. He caught the glance they exchanged; he didn't know how
they had thought he would miss it. There was nothing more familiar to him than
distrust, after all.
He
had used up the good faith he had once had with these men – this last scrap of Sergei's army -
and now all Ocelot shared with them was a wary tolerance. He knew they
wouldn't dare move against him while he was still of some use to them, and he
didn't need much longer.
A
gust of icy wind tore across the courtyard, ruffling Ocelot's collar. He tugged
at the leather cord holding his hair back. It had become hopelessly tangled by
the wind. Ocelot gave it a sharp pull, and it came loose all at once, taking
strands of hair with it. The sting was fresh and incisive; it faded quickly
after the initial bright flash. It was a young man's pain, but Ocelot only had
a moment to enjoy that.
The
wind coaxed his hair over his shoulder and into his eyes. Gray as dirty snow, stiff and wiry… Ocelot
caught it at the nape of his neck, tying it up again neatly.
The
last bloodstains of sunrise had been washed from the sky, and Ocelot began to
piece his mask into place. Outside the east wing of the base, he paused briefly
before going in. He had lived this long by being able to think on his feet, but
he also knew the value of pausing a moment to catch his breath.
He
went in, out of the cold.