Chelyabinsk: Where the Salamanders Glow Crawdads Do Not Sing: Black Russian, #1 by John Pansini

Author:John Pansini
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: KGB & GRU versus FBI & CIA in United States, cold war espionage fiction, African American immgration to Soviet Union, Afro-Russians racism in USSR, libraries librarians spy novel
Publisher: John Pansini
Published: 2021-10-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

A Man With a Plan

Chelyabinsk

October 1982

The park in Ozersk (City 40) lay near the Mayak facility. It was meant to be a pleasant space where scientists and engineers could come to rest and recalibrate their complex minds. But Mikhail had not come here to sit in a kiosk, drink hot cocoa, and enjoy the winter wonderland. Rather, he came to meet a friend and to give him a warning. He glanced at his watch; Mikhail Katkov was late.

A gently falling snow cloaked the pine trees, the grass, and walking paths. It covered even patches of the large, frozen pond. Beyond the city to the east were the mighty Ural Mountains, barely visible, that loomed like ghostly apparitions. The majesty of these great mountains would be forever lost to Mikhail. They reminded him of the death and destruction he’d seen in an even more spectacular mountain range, the Hindu Kush.

“Mishe!” a familiar voice called to him. It was Katkov trudging through the snow carrying a tray with two steaming cups of cocoa and a bag of pastries. He sat down next to Mikhail in the kiosk. They spoke in English.

“Sorry I’m late, but my supervisor asked for a detailed debriefing on my project. But when I told him that I was already late for my meeting with you, he dismissed me and said ‘Please give Comrade Captain my best regards.’ ” He laid the tray on the bench and slapped Mikhail on the back. “Everyone in Mayak loves you, Army Mishe,” he added, smiling.

Mikhail pulled off the glove on his right hand, “Thanks for the cocoa, Smart Mishe,” and poked inside the bag of pastries. “Crumb cakes! Such a pleasant surprise, I should think.”

“Yes, German crumb cakes. Comrade Baker is East German.”

When all cakes were devoured, they sat quietly. Katkov took in the silent peacefulness that surrounded him as if it was air.

“Take a deep breath, Mishe,” said Katkov. “Can you smell the snow, the pine trees?”

No Comrade. My nose only remembers cordite, steam from bodies torn apart, and the stink of men in fear for their lives... And the hatred of a woman.

Katkov continued, “We are so lucky to live in such a beautiful country.” Then he turned a serious face to Mikhail. “I might not have had to put my life at risk as many times as you have, Army Mishe, but my love of Russia is every bit as strong. This despite many of our fellow citizens do not seem to think us quite Russian enough.”

“Know what my wife has to say about that, Smart Mishe? That they’re jealous of our fabulous tans.”

Katkov slapped his knee and laughed.

“You have the soul of a poet” — and a deep love of our country — “Smart Mishe,” Mikhail added.

“All Russians do,” he replied. “And now that I’m a man in love,” he threw his arms out wide, “the whole world is a most glorious place.”

Happy and surprised, “So things are well between you and Alexandra?”

“Better than well, Mishe; things between us are simply marvelous.

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