It was beautiful, the way the sun went down behind the mountains. Like a giant, splashing grapefruit slowly rolling down the slopes. The peaks bled, just like they had every night for centuries. The Spaniards called them Sangre de Cristo, Blood of Christ.
A gentle wind tugged at the clouds, swirling them into the sun. Above the earth, mythical beasts arose from the nebulous fluff. It was time for the gorgons to pull the chariot to the lands below. It was the kind of sight that could take your breath away. But then again, every evening here could take your breath away.
Natalie sighed. Tonight she had no time to watch the daily cycle. Tonight she had to work. She entered her study, and closed the balcony door behind her. Her duteous workstation waited for her atop her mahogany desk. The machine greeted her with a screen requesting a user name and password. Several keystrokes later, she was logged on to her account. The speed of the Ethernet never ceased to amaze her. She had new mail.
A man walked up behind her and kissed her gently on the neck.
-“I thought I might find you here”
She turned around. Alyosha was looking over her shoulder, scanning her mail. Natalie smiled; she was protected from the world in the mountains of New Mexico. Hard to believe that this time last year she was roaming the pathetic streets of Moscow.
"V chyort!" she yelled at the tram pulling away from the station. Its dirty, yellow body mocked her as it wobbled along. Her bangs were stuck to her forehead, as if the rain was laced with adhesive. The filthy streets looked more miserable than usual. The grime floated atop the water; a black soup spiced with garbage flowed down the streets.
She yanked at her trench coat, pulling it tight around her body. I hate this place, she thought. She looked at her watch - five o'clock. The next tram was scheduled to come at five-fifteen. She knew it wouldn't arrive before six.
Natalie took a deep breath, inhaling the toxic air stirred by the rain, and began to run. She ran across the soaked sidewalks, scanning the streets for a shortcut. There was an alley around the corner. It was cradled between two thick concrete buildings covered with broken English, vulgar Russian. Natalie slowed down, lifted her head higher, straightened her posture, and turned.
She waded through the alley, not knowing what to expect. The tart smell of poverty lingered in the air; urine, vomit, festering despair. The stench was almost visible hovering above a pile of newspapers, cornered by bricks.
Something rubbed up against her leg. Natalie looked down at the furry brown thing nibbling at her pants. Shuddering, she kicked her leg. The rat collided with the wall and fell into a pool of mud. It climbed out of saturated dirt, lifting its pointy muzzle towards her. The black beads shone with fury. It hissed at her and dove into wet, moldy newspapers. Its body disappeared first, and then its long scaly tail.
She stepped away from the wall, and picked up her pace. When she returned to the hotel, she would draw herself a hot bubble bath and soak. She would finally finish that novel she started on the plane. And tomorrow she would finish her assignment, fax her article to the editor, and book a plane ride home. She just needed to get out of this alley, take a right, and…
Natalie stopped. A man obscured her way. He was lying down on his side, his back facing Natalie. He was dressed too well to be a bum. Maybe he had just partied too hard – the Moscow Soho was just a block away. She squatted down next to him, and placed her hand on his shoulder. Cashmere. Probably a newborn capitalist drowned in vodka. Or, a liberated artist playing with heroin. She pulled him over on his back. His throat was sliced from one ear to the other. His tongue was pulled through the cut. His sleeve slithered slowly. The alley began to spin.
The police arrived twenty minutes later. They photographed the scene, and bagged the body. Then they escorted her to the precinct, where two over-weight detectives ogled her as she explained how she found the body. She was an American, a journalist, reporting on the changing economic conditions in Russia. Yes, this was her first visit to Russia. Thank you, she always had a talent for languages; it ran in her family. No, she didn’t remember anything else. Could she go home now, please?
By the time she got to her hotel room it was well past midnight. She threw her coat on the floor, and hurried to the bar. She uncapped the miniature bottle of Stolichnaya, and emptied it in one swift motion. Natalie closed her eyes and waited for the burning sensation in throat and chest to fade. Once it was gone, she sat down and picked up the phone. Ethan wasn’t home. It was around four in D.C., he was probably on the golf course.
Natalie laid back on the bed and closed her eyes. She would try calling him again later. Her head hurt. She drifted to sleep.
She was running down a country road, surrounded by the harsh New England winter. Her father’s pickup looked out of place against the naked trees. A plastic tube stretched from the exhaust pipe to the driver’s side window. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. He was slouched in the front seat, his skin the color of the lobsters he caught. His throat was cut, his tongue pulled through. Natalie banged on the window until her palms bled from the splintered glass.
She woke up screaming. This wasn’t the first time she had relived her father’s suicide. She dreamt about it several times a month for seven years. Only without the Colombian necktie. She tried Ethan again. This time, he was home.
Ethan was furious. He reminded her that he never wanted her to go to Russia in the first place. She was engaged to the son of the president-elect of the United States, she should be mingling with the crème de la crème of Washington, not tripping over mutilated corpses in the back alleys of Moscow. Natalie assured him American streets weren’t safer…
She hung up the phone and wondered why she was involved with him in the first place. The answer was obvious: he was perfect. At least, he seemed perfect. He came from a wealthy, influential family. He was the star quarterback of his high school football team, he graduated first in his class from Yale, and Harvard Law. A native Texan, he lived in his stone-washed jeans, and slightly too-snug T-shirts. He had golden skin offset by a pearly smile and Pacific-blue eyes. His face was framed by gentle curls of blond, and his voice was deep with a melodious drawl. Ethan was the most charming man Natalie had ever met.
She fell in love with him despite his ultra-conservative opinions. Or maybe because of them. Through the years, she got used to the NRA Conventions and Christian Coalition rhetoric. They disagreed on everything, but somehow she needed him. Not that she couldn’t survive on her own, but it was more comfortable with him around. If it wasn’t for his father, she wouldn’t have gotten that position with the Post straight out of college. And if it wasn’t for Ethan, she wouldn’t have gone to Russia. It was twisted, really. The more he tried to control her, the more she tried to prove her own independence. It would be a hell of a marriage.
She was afraid to go back to sleep; she didn’t want to see Dad again. Natalie finished her article, and faxed it to Washington. Her novel bored her after the first three pages. The television was snowy. She grabbed her coat and went out to explore the streets. She made sure to stay in well-lit populated areas. Still, she did have to dodge junkies, drunks, and lovers. What a relief to see the sun rise bashfully over the city! She returned to the hotel, ordered a pot of coffee, and bought a copy of all the local newspapers. She scanned them for clues about her discovery. Nothing.
She wasn’t surprised. Under Communism, Moscow became hardened to crime. Now, the city was immune. There was, however, one story that caught her attention; a cemetery explosion during the memorial of the former president of the Relief Fund for Invalids of the Afghan War, one of Russia’s largest charities. It was commonly believed that the president’s death was caused by the Vory v Zakone, the Russian Mafia. But it wasn’t the bombing that attracted her – it was the last line of the article. A detail she almost overlooked: before the bomb’s detonation, witnesses saw a snake slither across the fresh grave. Natalie remembered the moving cashmere sleeve.
She spread open the heavy pages of yet another paper. The noise in the restaurant soared as tourists descended from their nightly fast. Her shoulders slumped down, her neck felt chapped. Gasping for breath, she clasped her hands on her neck. The snake coiled around her tighter and tighter. Its sticky tongue tickled her cheek.
-“Gaspoja!” Startled, Natalie looked up. The waitress signaled a refill. Natalie shook her head no. Wondering how long she slept, she paid her bill, and left. She wandered the streets, until she found herself back in the alley. It was a mirror image of the night before, with one minor exception. The body was gone. She stood where it had lain, trying to make sense of what happened. He had to have been a snitch. The Colombian necktie was meant to be a warning to others: keep your mouth shut, or else... The vory v zakone had known connections to the South American drug cartels. Ninety percent of Russian banks were owned and operated by organized crime. What could this man have known to inspire such fear from men with so much power? What could he have said to warrant such a brutal death?
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure in the shadows. A tall, night-clad man was watching her. They made eye contact before he walked away. Something told her to follow him. She ran after him into the subway. When he walked into the cemetery, she was right behind him. He stopped in front of the attacked grave.
-“The Afghan veterans. $200 million a year, importing duty-free alcohol and cigarettes. Hell of a charity, no?”
Natalie was the only one there. He had to have been talking to her. He turned around. “Come.” He walked across the dilapidated sidewalks between the crumbling tombstones. He led her into a cold, musty mausoleum. Ethan would have a coronary if he knew she followed a stranger into an abandoned vault. Maybe it was her journalistic curiosity. Maybe it was her liberal boldness. Or, maybe it was the snake tail peering out of his pocket. Either way, she knew she should not walk down those stairs. She took a deep breath and climbed down.
The man was standing against the stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He was tall, had short brown hair, and deep blue eyes.
-“Natalia McQuethy”
-“Natalie” she corrected him.
He smiled. “Harasho. Natalie. You were born on June 10, 1975, in Canterbury Cove, Maine. Your mother, Manon, was a housewife. Your father, Keith, a lobsterman, committed suicide when you were sixteen. You have three older brothers, Chip, Brian, and David. Chip is stockbroker living in New York…”
She started at him in amazement as he calmly recited her life.
-“Who are you?” she asked, her voice quivering.
-“Why should I answer, if the response would be a lie? After all, how many of us really know who we are?” he paused. “I was sent to make you a proposition. I can offer you the one thing you desire above everything else. I can give you the secret to happiness”
She interrupted him. “I am happy”
-“Are you? Three weeks from today, you’ll marry a man you don’t love. He’ll trap you inside his world, where you will shrivel in your misery. You’ll smile for the cameras, entertain Senators, attend all of his golf games, have a couple kids. You will dedicate your life to a man who believes that he deserves everything, power, money, you. You’ll be his possession, and he’ll be a leach that will suck you dry.”
Natalie wanted to slap him. Who did he think he was? What right had he to say that? What right, indeed, to speak the truth? She knew he was correct. She had always known, yet she could never admit it. But she did love Ethan. Didn’t she?
The stranger wiped away her solitary tear with his gloved hand. He was the Devil, she was sure, asking her to sell her soul. “Pilot Art-Club. Midnight,” he whispered and walked away. She watched him disappear into the daylight.
The sunlight beckoned her. Somewhere, a solitary bird cleared his throat after a season of silence. They were two lonely souls pleading for a rebirth. She had listened to a bird the day her father died. Dad sat with her on the swing in the backyard. “Don’t be a rebel, Nat. Do what is expected of you” he told her, and climbed into his truck for the last time.
And she did. All her life, she conformed to society’s standards. Right down to her engagement to Ethan. He expected her to melt into his life. She was to incorporate herself into his circles, support his causes, serve his purposes. Once they were married, he did not wish her to work – they could support their future family on his salary alone. Ethan spoke to her editor before she left. The Moscow trip was her last assignment. She had been so humiliated! She heard about it at the water cooler. And yet, she loved Ethan. Didn’t she?
Natalie stood up and slowly entered the world above ground. The sun felt warm against her face – she took a deep breath and exhaled her past. Her engagement ring glittered with excitement. So full of life, this ancient chunk of coal. It was ironic, really, its life symbolized her death. She pulled the golden band off her finger. With every fiber of her being she wanted to throw it into the squalid waters of the Moskva River. But she didn’t. On her way out of the cemetery, she passed a rag-covered woman clasping a baby. The woman, or more precisely, the girl, pleaded with passerbys over her baby’s screams. Natalie tossed her the ring, and sauntered away.
Just before midnight she walked into the soho club. She recognized some of the people there; this was the hotspot of Moscow’s intellectual and art scene. She walked up to the bar, ordered a Martini, and looked around. There was no sign of her mystery man. She finished her drink, and got up to leave. It was 12:30 am. The bar tender stopped her and pointed to a corner on the other side of the club. She walked across the dance floor to the designated table. The Cemetery Man asked her to sit down. He thanked her for coming. She smiled, but wished she had taken a nap during the day.
When she woke up, she was lying in bed. She was still dressed, but she didn’t recognize the room. The view from the window showed snow, ice, and more snow. This definitely was not Moscow. In panic, she rushed out of the room. Where was she? What time was it? What happened?
The Cemetery Man was sitting on a huge plush couch downstairs. He was talking on the phone, but he hung up as soon as he saw her.
-“Where am I?” she demanded.
-“Khakass.” Siberia. “I hope you slept well”
-“What did you do to me?”
-“You’ll know in time. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
She was, but she wasn’t about to admit it. God only knew what knocked her out. She shook her head. He nodded and gestured her to follow him. They walked upstairs, back to the bedroom. He opened the dresser drawer, and pulled out a stack of clothes. He handed them to her and led her to a bathroom across the hall. She took a shower, dressed herself in the pants and sweater he gave her, and returned downstairs. Her head was swarming with questions. He told her to sit next to him on the plush couch.
-“Don’t be afraid, Natalia. Izvinitye, Natalie.”
She smiled, hesitantly. What was it about him that caused her to let down her guard? What was about his eyes, those sparkling sapphires, that pulled her in?
-“You are here because you have been chosen. Granted, you were chosen by a fluke, but the Commissariat has ruled you to be a worthy candidate.”
-“Chosen for what? Which commissariat?”
-“Patience, my dear, patience. Everything will be explained at its proper time.” He had a beautiful smile.
-“My name is…was…Aleksei Iliych Kozakov.”
She didn’t even bother asking. She just listened patiently. He acknowledged her attentiveness with a nod.
-“I was recruited by the Organization ten years ago”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. Ten years? He looked to be in his mid-twenties. He grinned at her response. He was a handsome man, very elegant, very mysterious.
-“Some of our members have been with us for twenty, thirty, even forty years. You have been selected because you demonstrate a strong will, independent mind, loyal heart and above all, intense professionalism.”
He stood up as he spoke and walked out of the living room, through a dinning room, and down the basement stairs. She followed him. He stopped in front of a heavy door. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked it.
-“After you see what I am about to show you, you will be forced to make a decision. You will have to decide whether or not you want to join us. Of course, the decision will be up to you.”
Natalie knew it was a lie. She wondered if the man in the alley had been given the same choice. Maybe she should have listened to Ethan. Maybe she should have stayed in Washington.
-“I understand.”
Aleksei opened the door.
The room was dark. He told her to move forward. She walked cautiously, trying to feel her way through the blackness. The door slammed behind her. She called out to Aleksei. A muffled maraca answered her. A chill went down her back – when she was thirteen she spent the summer at a dude ranch. She recognized the sound. Oh God, why did she trust Aleksei?
Her eyes stung when the lights came on. The room was empty. A rattlesnake uncoiled itself in the corner. A cobra and a coral snake slithered around it. Aleksei stood among them.
-“They are amazing creatures, aren’t they?” he asked. She swallowed hard and took a step back. There was nothing amazing about these reptiles.
-“Some are so beautiful, like the coral snake, glistening with vibrant shades of crimson, onyx, and gold. Some are so haunting, like the pallid Suphan cobra. Some are so hypnotizing, like the rattlesnake. All are lethal. Did you know that the ancient Mesopotamians believed that the world was created out of the body of Tiamat, a primordial snake?”
She didn’t.
-“Australian aborigines claim that a giant rainbow snake was crucial to the creation of life. The Bible teaches that the snake Leviathan encircles the earth. In India, cobras are seen as the reincarnation of important individuals called Nagas. According to ancient Greek mythology, Aesculapius discovered medicine by observing one snake bring another snake back to life through the use of herbs. In Judeo-Christian thought, the snake became synonymous with Satan, eventually developing into the dragon…Still, the animal is a symbol of transmutation, spontaneous and creative energy, and immortality.”
He stepped out of the group of snakes. “They are amazing because of the spectrum of emotions they inspire, ranging from awe to fear. We are like that. We are the Anguidae. We slither in the shadows, undetected by the world. Though we at times we seem mercenary, we are always in control, eternally bound by the Laws of the Snake. We are watchers of human history.”
Natalie looked at him as he spoke. What he was saying intrigued her. Maybe Aleksei was right. Maybe he could give her what she always wanted: freedom. He seemed to recognize her thoughts.
-“There is a catch.” She had expected it.
-“Yes?”
-“Once you become one of us, you cease to exist.”
Natalie recalled the details of her life: finding her father, meeting Ethan, graduating from college. She had dreamed of disappearing before. This was her chance.
Natalie turned her gaze back to the screen, the email was brief: “Baghdad; 1800 hrs.” Not her favorite part of the world, but…