Part 4 (1/2)

”Three. What is that quaint expression about tiny mercies?”

”Small mercies,” the American corrected, and held out his hand for the coffee without glancing down.

You marry young, looking for-something. Anything. But she dies. Badly. Maybe you leave the Army. Maybe you join the Navy. Maybe you have nowhere else to go, and some smart talent scout notices the strength of your body, the agility of your mind, the charm in your demeanor. That might not mean anything, but coupled with that dead look at the back of your eyes-the one that says I am in this alone, forever-maybe you find yourself recruited. It's the CIA, or is it the GRU?

One thing leads to another. Detached duty first, then a transfer. Maybe you keep wearing her ring, and maybe you don't. If you do, it turns out to be a mistake. You learn what you should have known, to keep things that mean something to you in a safe deposit box, not in your apartment and not on your person. You learn quickly not to get attached. Not to make friends. Not to bring lovers home. Not to get into the car and simply flip the ignition, as any normal person would. Not to turn your back.

Not to trust.

You're a physicist and an athlete, or an engineer and a soldier. A second-story man and a martial artist-with another profession as well. The oldest profession, but there are a thousand ways to sell yourself. When you're with a woman-for business or pleasure-or, in the line of duty, sometimes a man, you don't sleep. If duty demands you stay the night, rather than rising and making apologies, you lie awake listening to soft breaths in the darkness. You never, ever doze. Even if it were safe, you couldn't bear to explain the nightmares.

Until, unexpectedly, you meet someone who doesn't need an explanation.

”We are not dead,” the Russian answered, and deigned to clink gla.s.ses with his partner when the American leaned forward on the deep leather sofa to make the reach. He knocked two fingers of vodka back in a gulp, feeling the insufficient burn of the Stolichnaya, and rose and pa.s.sed through the door into the kitchen to pour himself another from the bottle in the American's Kelvinator. He pushed back against the refrigerator's door, leaning his abused neck on the cold curve of the metal. ”You are going to have a s.h.i.+ner, my friend.”

The American laughed. ”I'm going to have more than a s.h.i.+ner. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d loosened a couple of teeth.”

”Do not poke them and they will resettle,” the Russian advised, sipping his vodka. Decadent novelty: vodka that could be sipped. America had its advantages.

”The expert on loosened teeth, are we?”

”Somewhat. Is the initial K in my first name?”

”No. You're not Katharine Hepburn.”

”Five. Am I male?”

”Yes. Six.” The American had not risen from his seat deep in the green leather.

The Russian dropped his gla.s.s on the table beside the sofa and came toward him, flicking the crystal with a fingernail to make it ring. ”Have another.”

”The onions are in the refrigerator. As is the vermouth-”

”If you would drink vodka like a civilized person-” He fetched the necessary items and handed his partner the gin bottle. Standing over the American, the Russian observed what he poured and tilted the bottle marginally higher. He skewered onions on a toothpick, and dropped them into a Gibson that was probably much too warm. ”It is good for you to relax.”

The American watched in amus.e.m.e.nt, and killed half the gla.s.s in a swallow. ”It was a close call, wasn't it?”

”It was closer than I like,” the Russian answered, and shoved his partner against the couch, a palm flat on either shoulder, straddling the other man's knees. He raised his right hand and tilted the American's chin up, turning his eye into the light. ”You have a hematoma.”

”You,” the American answered, ”have whip cuts from here-” idle fingers marked a place just below the collar of the black turtleneck ”-to here.” The crease at the top of his b.u.t.tocks, and by chance the American's fingers pressed hard on the worst of the welts.

The Russian hissed.

”And you're worried about a spot of blood in my eye?”

”Closer than I like,” he said again. The vodka made him feel distanced, thoughtful. ”Are you drunk yet?”

”Pleasantly-” a slight hesitation, and a smile ”-loose.”

”Good,” the Russian growled, and plucked the pricey gla.s.s from his partner's fingers, setting it beside his own. He grabbed two wings of a linen collar in fists that were surprisingly large for his height and pulled, tendons ridging, b.u.t.tons scattering, baring the American's untanned chest. ”Because I almost lost you tonight, and I am not in a mood to play games.”

”I save the games-” the American leaned forward, raised a bruised hand, knotted it in the Russian's perpetually untidy hair and yanked ”-for people upon whom my life does not depend.”

The pain was good, startling, sharp and alive as the tinkle of shattering crystal. Pain was always better than the alternative. ”That is as it should be,” the Russian said, and bit his partner perhaps harder than he should have.

Silence, broken by little grunts of effort and the wetness of mouth on mouth, mouth on skin, affirmations of survival. The American's lip was puffy, the flesh inside his cheek welted and split from his teeth. The Russian tasted blood. He did not mind.

Tasting his partner's blood was also preferable to not.

”We have a plane to catch again, in the morning,” he said, leaning back and raising his arms to make it easier for his partner to peel cashmere knit from damaged skin. ”You would think our employer would give us a week off at least.”

”Tovarisch?” The American laid one callused hand flat on the gymnast's muscle of the Russian's belly.

”Yes?”

”Shut up.”

”Am I famous?”

Hm. How to answer that? The American smiled, long square fingers tapping idly at the hard plastic of the steering wheel. ”Four. In certain circles-”

”That is not a yes or no answer. I should claim forfeit-”

The American cleared his throat. ”Hmm. Bathroom light just went off. He's at the window. He's drawing the shades-”

”What is he wearing?” The Russian was suddenly a flurry of motion, turning over the seat back, digging in a black plastic trash bag on the back seat of the babys.h.i.+t-brown 1962 Dodge Polara with the three small dents in the driver's side door.

”Slumming,” the American said, leaning forward with the binoculars pressed to his eyes. ”Dark slacks. Your jeans should be fine in the dark. And-slouchy white pullover. No, ivory. Sweater or a sweats.h.i.+rt.”

”We brought a white sweats.h.i.+rt,” his partner said, and slithered back into the front seat with his prize. He ducked his head, back of his hand brus.h.i.+ng his partner's arm in the confined s.p.a.ce as he writhed into the s.h.i.+rt. ”This should do in the dark. Where do you wish to take him, my friend?”

”If he follows his usual route, ah-” the American looked at his partner, just as the Russian looked at him. The Russian offered a wary flash of smile at the inevitability of that glance. ”-I'll take him out behind the tailor shop and hand him off to the boys in the van. Complete the route. I'll be there after you make the pickup.”

A stocky blond man emerged from the front door of the brownstone, shuffling along purposefully, his hands stuffed into the side pockets of his slacks, his ivory sweater lumpy and unkempt. ”Be careful,” the Russian said, and slipped out of the car as if he had never been there, the hood of his inside-out sweats.h.i.+rt pulled up to cover the brightness of his hair.

Be careful? the American thought. I'm not the one going into harm's way tonight, you crazy Soviet.

On the surface, he's wind to your stone, ice to your fire. The accent is an enemy's, the demeanor suave where yours is stiff, or perhaps brittle where yours is calm.

He's a depraved and G.o.dless communist, or maybe he's a decadent capitalist swine. The Cold War takes place in the break room, and your coworkers place their bets on which of you will kill the other one first. You overhear comments about the immovable object and the irresistible force. Matter and antimatter. White and black. Night and day. Us and Them.

Your coworkers are fools.

The detente that matters takes place in greasy midnight alleyways over icy, oily coffee. Peel off the pretenses and the same history lies beneath. Night and day aren't opposites.

They are two halves of a whole.