Agent’s Revenge. Novel

— Better to be beaten than killed; better to look like a voyeur than a corpse! — she thought as Roman vanished from sight. Glancing over her shoulder at Nino, she discreetly made the sign of the cross over the void outside the window.

— Zhenechka Petrovna, report to the admissions department immediately! — a young nurse shouted, cracking open the door to the staff room.

— An officer was brought in — crashed on a motorcycle. His wife is dead, and I don’t think he’s a survivor either.

Zhenya, the head nurse of the surgical department, was experienced and efficient, knowing and capable of more than some doctors. She was somewhat withdrawn and unsmiling outside of work, but with patients, she was transformed — which was why they loved her. At work, she was highly valued; she was always «at hand,» as she even lived in a wing of the hospital. So today, on her day off, she would have to admit the incoming patient and, if surgery was required, assist with it.

Zhenya looked in the mirror hanging by the exit, tucked her hair under her cap, adjusted her robe, and went to examine the officer brought in after the crash.

In 1921, when units of the 11th Red Army entered Tbilisi, nothing foreshadowed a drama in the family of the well-known and respected photographer Pyotr Margelov. But as they say, man proposes and God disposes; no one is immune to chance. If someone accidentally wins a large sum in a regular lottery, someone else in the celestial roulette either wins death or loses their life.

One of the tipsy commissars — in a greasy leather jacket smelling of nomadic life, sweat, tobacco, and even blood — stepped into «Margelov’s Photography» to have his picture taken. He took a liking to a pretty blonde — the wife of the photographer, Pyotr Margelov. Warmed by wine, the commissar began to harass her filthily, waving the Mauser he had taken out for the «seriousness» of the photograph. When the husband made a remark, the commissar, without blinking an eye, put the Mauser to use and shot the girl’s parents before the eyes of their 11-year-old daughter, calling them «undefeated bourgeois.»

On that day, for Zhenya — who became an orphan in an instant — her happy childhood ended. She was taken in by a maternal relative who worked at the hospital. Since then, Zhenya lived with her at the hospital and helped care for the sick; when the relative died, Zhenya essentially replaced her at work.

A large man lay on the gurney; the blue patches on his collar bore two bars. It was difficult to determine the major’s features, as his face was a solid bloody mess. A high forehead, wide cheekbones, and a head of black curly hair with receding temples revealed a stubborn character. Bloody lips whispered almost inaudibly:

— Mary… what about Mary? Where is she?

Zhenya took the documents from the pocket of his tunic.

— Meliton Georgievich Archvadze, born 1903, Major, pilot, multiple injuries due to an accident, — she dictated to the nurse filling out the patient’s chart.

A buckled map case lay on the gurney. Zhenya opened it, as she was required to list the documents inside and hand them over for safekeeping. In the first compartment lay a map of Georgia, but what she saw in the second compartment made her shudder and look around to see if anyone was watching. In the map case lay a letter with a large inscription at the top: «Strictly Confidential. To Comrade Stalin Personally.» Zhenya knew what an appeal to Stalin, bypassing the higher commanders, could mean for the major. She realized that if someone reported the letter — and such «well-wishers» existed in the hospital — it would be better for the major not to recover. The hospital was often visited by NKVD men who took even sick officers away; they almost never returned to finish their treatment.

Zhenya discreetly tucked the envelope under her blouse.

The operation lasted more than four hours, and the surgeon, a Military Doctor 1st Rank, performed a miracle, bringing Major Meliton Archvadze back from the brink. Now, whether he lived or not depended solely on his body and how the Lord looked upon him.

For two days, Archvadze was neither alive nor dead. Bandaged all over, Meliton did not regain consciousness.

It was 1937, and the appearance of NKVD officers boded no good. Of course, there were plenty of «enemies of the people» of all stripes, and they had to be uprooted with all revolutionary ruthlessness, as their enemy subversive activities hindered the building of a beautiful and bright future under the leadership of Comrade Stalin — dear to the heart of every Soviet person and painfully loved by all. But it seemed to Zhenya that far too many of these enemies were found among friends, acquaintances, and even colleagues she had known since childhood. Of course, Zhenya did not doubt the correctness of Comrade Stalin’s policies or the need to fight enemies, but she did not approve of the local underlings who performed their duties far too zealously, mowing people down like grass with a scythe.

At the end of the second day, two NKVD officers came to the hospital.

The military men spoke in the head doctor’s office and also with Zhenya, asking her if all the major’s belongings were on the table before her and if there had been anything else. Zhenya’s heart sank. This man had lost his wife; a little daughter remained, whom Zhenya had seen when the child came with her grandmother. This major couldn’t be an enemy! Could it be that this little girl, just like her, would have to remain an orphan? It couldn’t be; it wasn’t fair! Zhenya was glad no one had seen the letter to Stalin, which she had hidden in the boiler room. Looking at the major’s personal belongings on the table — a watch, documents, a belt, the open map case — and seeing that the map was missing, she stated:

— There seemed to be some kind of map in the case.

— Thank you, we have seized it.

— Well, everything else seems to be in its place.

The officers decided to speak with the major. Despite the department doctor’s warning that the major had not regained consciousness for two days, the NKVD officers entered the ward anyway.

5. An Unexpected Encounter

Arriving home with a swollen nose, I went straight to my room. I was grateful to my family for not coming in to soothe me with soul-searching questions. About twenty minutes later, my grandmother quietly entered with a bowl of some herbal infusion; patting my hair, she began to treat me in silence. The next morning was Saturday. My nose had almost returned to normal, and the pain was bearable. My mood, however, was nonexistent — total apathy and prostration. I spent almost the entire day lounging on the sofa, reading Asimov and blankly watching the «News from the Fields» program on TV.

The anger had passed, leaving behind a foul sense of being spat upon. Seeing my condition, my family was sure I had gotten into a fight with someone, possibly over a girl. Youth will be youth — the main thing was that I was alive; everything else could be fixed!

On Sunday, after that shameful Friday and the medically melancholic Saturday, I felt like clearing my head. I went down to the yard and played a round of preference with the guys. When it started to drizzle, we decided to hit the bathhouse around the corner. To steam ourselves, grab some beers, and then crash the girls’ dormitory at the Institute of Physical Education — it was a routine affair. The dorm was nearby, and we were regulars there. At first, there were clashes with the guys from the same dorm, but they were few and we were locals, so things were settled quickly and problems disappeared. When we showed up with booze, they happily joined in with the girls to keep us company.

Having finished with the bathhouse, the «ersh» (beer with vodka), and the «do you respect me?» type of talk, I walked through the fresh air. Feeling my soul, which after several drinks had settled somewhere in the region of my bladder, relieved of high pressure, my legs instinctively headed toward the coveted dormitory.

The well-built, flexible, uninhibited girl-athletes knew their business well. Sex-sprints, swims, and races were not only their favorite activities but also completely ordinary. They cut loose godlessly; the sex was often collective, abundant, and sophisticated. The absence of lofty feelings was more than compensated for by acrobatics and muscular skill.

From frequent and persistent training, the girls’ sexual form was almost always at its peak. So this time, too, I made it home from the free «sports brothel» by morning — exhausted, spent, but satisfied.

Having slept until noon, I headed to my internship, where there was no need to rush. The Olympic motto reigned there — «The main thing is not the equipment, but the attendance» — and the daily billiard battles exerted their own pull. Mind you, the billiards were peculiar; instead of standard balls, we used slightly smaller steel balls from turbine bearings.

After chasing the iron balls around with my classmates and gossiping about the previous night’s collective acrobatic bolero with the athletes in vivid detail, my energy ran out by three o’clock, and we began to disperse. I felt no urge to go to the embankment; I’d had my fill of psychiatry.

Walking out of the power plant gates and chatting with my classmates, I stuck with the group, taking the usual road toward the metro. Passing the hospital fence and turning the corner, I unexpectedly saw the «old hag» — Evgenia Petrovna. In civilian clothes, I didn’t recognize her immediately. My ear began to ache instantly; instinctively looking around to see if the psychiatric inquisition was nearby, I walked past, pretending I hadn’t noticed or recognized her. I had no desire to tempt fate again; who knew where and what might happen because of this madam, or what kind of adventures I might find on my, shall we say, long-suffering head.

— Roma, wait.

I stopped reluctantly. When she approached, I asked:

— Isn’t the artwork on my face enough for you?

— Forgive me, but that was the only good thing I could do for you that day.

— And maybe, for total happiness, you should have drowned me in the river too?

— Don’t be cynical. I’m very distressed myself that it turned out this way. Although, no — I’m very glad it turned out exactly like this. People are already interested in you, and the version that you are a common «peeping Tom» is the best one possible. I tried to call you yesterday evening, but you weren’t there. I didn’t want to meet you at the power plant exit in plain view of the hospital checkpoint. I thought you’d hardly go by the embankment today and decided to catch you here. God willing, it will pass over.

— And where did you get my phone number?

— I’ll explain later. Follow me.

After some hesitation, I followed her. We walked for about ten minutes toward the «Apollo» cinema, where Evgenia Petrovna dove into an «Italian courtyard.» Looking around, I followed her.

The Tbilisi Italian courtyards, with their pre-revolutionary buildings, are a world unto themselves. A world of national color and multi-lingual noise.

In the mornings, they are swept by loud Kurdish yard-cleaners; the sonorous calls of visiting milk-sellers ring out, along with the voices of neighbors leaning out of windows in their morning robes — blessing the local men with white breasts nearly spilling out from under their armpits — as they ask the sellers about the dairy assortment. The hubbub of a gang of children headed to school. And the «plate» loudspeaker blaring from a pole.

Well, in the evening, in this same Italian courtyard, different intonations are heard. At the eternally running tap, a few women, constantly washing or rinsing something, discuss with the same temperament everything from the color of a child’s morning diarrhea to the size of a son-in-law’s genitals. At the communal courtyard table, the quiet male feast is replaced by the monotonous rolling of dice in backgammon or the usual clatter of dominoes in a game of «Goat.» And if any part of this chorus suddenly goes missing, it means something has happened to someone, and the whole yard rushes to help.

But during the day — all Italian courtyards are nearly deserted, as some are at work and others at the market or the shops. It was at such a time that I dove after Petrovna into her Italian courtyard.

We climbed a spiral, rust-eaten staircase that had seen many feet, and after walking along a glass-enclosed veranda, we found ourselves before a door upholstered in black imitation leather.

— This is my room, don’t worry. I’m worried myself, as I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing at all.

Entering the place, I could feel that no one had lived there for a long time, or almost not at all. This was evidenced not only by the absence of any scent of owners but also by the layer of dust on the furniture.

— I’m rarely here, hence the dust. Roma, let me brew some coffee first. We’ll have some coffee, you’ll realize there’s no trickery here — and you’ll calm down. I still don’t know how to behave myself. I think you’ve already realized that I am a mentally sane woman, and I intend to talk to you about Nino. But not because I want to or you want to, but because she asked me to — and she was the one who gave me your phone number.

6. I Am Your Guardian Angel

Meliton Archvadze — wrapped in bandages like a cocoon, with IV drips in both arms — had been unconscious for two days. His lips were as white as the bandages; only his thick black eyebrows and the lashes of his closed eyes were all the gaze could rest upon.

The «osobists» had taken Zhenya along just in case of an emergency. She stood behind the NKVD officers. One was tall, older, wearing glasses; the other was short and hairy, with small, wicked eyes. Zhenya watched as the short one felt the lying major’s pulse, then lifted the patient’s eyelid and yanked at the hairs of his eyebrows to check the pupil’s reaction.

— He’s a goner, — the one who had yanked the eyebrow declared.

Then he rummaged with his hand under the pillow, lifted the blanket, and finding nothing, brushed off his palms and turned to Zhenya:

— What’s your name?

— Evgenia Petrovna.

— Zhenya, then? If this enemy suddenly comes to life, let us know. And if he croaks, call anyway — we’ll celebrate it together this evening.

He handed Zhenya a scrap of paper and, flashing a gold tooth, slapped her below the waist. Purely by reflex, Zhenya slapped him across the face.

— You bitch, who do you think you’re raising your nasty little hand against!? I’ll rot you; I’ll have you crawling and licking my boots so I’ll forgive and love you.

The short-statured man, with his hairy hand, gripped Zhenya’s forearm like a vice and pulled her toward the exit.

— Stand down, Lieutenant! Haven’t you had enough female prisoners? — the higher-ranking officer sternly rebuked the «gorilla.» — Calm down, young lady; he has a very nervous job, so he snapped.

The lieutenant turned red as a beet; a vein pulsed at his temple, his lips became thin and pale, and his eyes filled with blood. Zhenya felt terrified; it was clear that remorse was a feeling unknown to him. This animal in an officer’s uniform reminded her of that commissar who, out of his own lust, had shot her parents. Zhenya’s eyes filled with tears. The officers left, and Zhenya, calming herself, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She approached Meliton’s bed, adjusted the blanket, smoothed the eyebrow where a clump had been torn out with her finger, sat on the edge of the bed, and began to feel the patient’s pulse.

— Lord, what have we all done to offend you? How did my mother and father offend you, that you allowed this scoundrel in breeches and a stinking leather jacket to shoot them? Why did you allow that monster with a Mauser to shoot my parents before my eyes? I nearly lost my mind because of it — how did I offend you? How did this major and his little daughter offend you, that you deprived them of a beloved wife and mother? And now, why did you bring these people here, people who have nothing sacred in their souls, so they can deprive this major’s daughter of her father as well? What kind of «enemy of the people» is he? A military pilot, a major, a handsome man — and suddenly an enemy? What nonsense!

Zhenya, immersed in these heavy life questions, sat in a daze staring at Meliton’s hand, and thus did not immediately notice or realize that the patient had opened his eyes.

— Water… — Meliton whispered.

— My dear, my good man, thank God, you’ve come to!

Zhenya moistened the major’s lips with a damp cotton ball and stroked his thick, stiff black forelock:

— Just don’t lose consciousness again. I won’t let anyone hurt you! If the Lord, for some reason, hasn’t stood up for you, I will be your guardian angel. Yes, yes… I already knew back when they brought you in that I had to save you, and I hid your letter! Don’t die! For the sake of your beautiful daughter, you have no right to do that!

— Who are you? — Meliton’s quiet voice sounded unexpectedly.

— Zhenya. I’m a nurse. You’ve been unconscious for two days. Try not to speak.

— How is my wife?

— Wait, I’ll call the doctor now.

Zhenya rushed out of the ward, closed the door, leaned her back against it, and closed her eyes.

Zhenya had long ago given up on men; they didn’t really move her. But now, even at the sound of Meliton’s quiet voice, bells were ringing in her ears, her heart was beating somewhere in her throat, and her legs simply refused to obey.

— I’m very sorry about your Mary. I don’t intend to replace her, but I won’t let anyone hurt you!

Zhenya, trying not to betray the surge of emotion, went to report the good news to the head doctor.

7. The Denunciation

Georgy Ivanovich Merabov stood by the window, watching a worker trim the bushes in the flowerbed. He smoked and thought:

— Suppose I don’t like how he trims that bush; I could erase him with a single stroke of my pen as a German spy intentionally sabotaging socialist nature. Or I could reward him — simply by not arresting him. But if my superior walks in and doesn’t like how the bush is trimmed, the poor gardener will be imprisoned as a spy anyway, only they’ll arrest me too, for covering up for spies. Nowadays, to avoid becoming a «spy,» one has to be a scoundrel. Though after a while, they’ll still put you against the wall for being a scoundrel; scoundrels aren’t needed long-term, they can’t be trusted.

Georgy stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill.

— So, think: what to do with this gardener? A problem!

The colonel walked over to the T-shaped table where he held meetings and glanced at his working side of the desk. On the green baize, to the right, stood a small bust of Felix Dzerzhinsky, next to two telephone sets. Symmetrically, on the left, stood a black desk lamp, and in the center sat a writing set with a heavy paperweight. Near the table stood a large safe topped with a large bust of Lenin, and on the wall behind him hung a portrait of Stalin himself.

Merabov sat heavily in his chair. Before him lay a red folder. After drumming his knuckles on the table for a few moments, he opened the folder and read the report inside for the third time. May 10, 1937 To: Head of the Tbilisi Department of the GPU-NKVD Colonel G.I. Merabov From: Investigator Lieutenant V.G. Glonti

R E P O R T

I hereby report that due to low professionalism, or perhaps for other reasons, the truck driver failed to fully complete his assignment. In the accident involving Major M. Archvadze’s motorcycle, only the wife died — Mary Archvadze, agent codenamed «Sova» [Owl].

During a visit to the surviving major at the hospital, it became clear that he had been in a coma for two days. The doctors’ prognosis is 50/50.

The letter to I.V. Stalin, which the agent had reported, was not found at the crash site, nor in the map case, nor in the pockets; nor was it found during the examination of Mary Archvadze at the morgue.

I interviewed the nurse who inventoried the belongings found with Major Archvadze. She claimed to have seen nothing other than what was recorded. This nurse immediately seemed more than suspicious to me.

When I entered Archvadze’s ward with Major N.V. Khutsiev, the major, for some reason, brought along this suspicious nurse, E.P. Margelova, because of whom I was unable to strangle the comatose Archvadze.

I gave Margelova a phone number and asked her to call when this bastard Archvadze comes to his senses; she refused and struck me across the face, thereby demonstrating her hostility toward socialism and personally toward Comrade Stalin.

I intended to bring her in for interrogation, but Major N.V. Khutsiev rudely cut me off and began to calm the enemy Margelova.

I request your permission to personally interrogate both of them, as there is a clear indication of collusion on their part, and possibly a counter-revolutionary conspiracy.

(Signature)

The colonel sat perfectly still for some time, but his working jaw muscles and the pencil snapped in his hands betrayed his internal tension. Georgy Ivanovich understood perfectly well that if he gave the green light to this letter, he would be signing his own death warrant — because Nugzar Khutsiev was his cousin, a fact this degenerate Glonti, fortunately, did not know. What a bastard, what criminal scum… look where he’s digging! I’ll show this hairy gibbon! An underdeveloped butcher, a pervert! Well, you’re a dead man now!

What a life — everyone digging a pit for their neighbor. Like hungry rats trying to devour one another.

Georgy picked up the receiver and dialed a number:

— Nugzar Varlamovich, what’s the situation with Archvadze? Drop by, we need to discuss it. Only don’t bark «Yes, Comrade Colonel» into the phone if Glonti is nearby.

— Yes, Comrade Colonel! Glonti is with the female prisoners.

— I’m waiting.

Major Khutsiev took the top folder from a neat stack on the edge of his desk — labeled in large letters «Case of M.G. Archvadze» — and left the office.

To avoid tempting fate, the brothers stepped out onto the balcony:

— Read this, — the colonel handed the report to his brother. — Good thing this filth doesn’t know you’re my brother, or he would have written straight to the top. Then he’d definitely beat a confession out of us that we’re planning to kill Lavrentiy Beria!

— What do you suggest?

— What do you think? — the colonel smirked. — Not going down to the basement, that’s for sure! Tell me, Nugzar, what happened at the hospital? Who is this Margelova?

— Just a medic, nothing special. But the lieutenant started grabbing her by the backside, so she slapped him.

— And what about the pilot?

— Still in a coma.

— And the letter?

— Georgy, who actually saw that letter besides «Sova»? Maybe she was just informing on her husband? We can’t ask her now!

— Fine. If God grants it — let him recover. We’ll think about it then.

The brothers whispered a bit longer and, apparently having reached an agreement, struck a deal with a handshake!

8. For Stalin

At 6 o’clock in the evening, the phone rang in the investigation department:

— Lieutenant Glonti listening!

— Yes, Comrade Colonel.

— Yes, Major Khutsiev is present. I’ll pass it on! Yes, report at 21:00.

The lieutenant hung up the receiver.

— Looks like Ivanych has gone soft in the head — calling us at nine in the evening to report on the Archvadze case.