The Cardinal of the Kremlin - Tom Clancy [82]
His mental processes were still not fully functional. In his twilight state he wondered why he hadn't been killed. He'd heard enough stories in Moscow about how the Afghans treated captives and was that why you volunteered to handle this tour in addition to your own ? He wondered now at his fate, and how he'd brought it about.
You cannot die, Valeriy Mikhailovich, you must live. You have a wife, and she has suffered enough, he told himself. Already she is going through The thought stopped of its own accord. The Captain slid the photo into a breast pocket and surrendered himself to the beckoning unconsciousness as his body labored to heal itself. He didn't wake as he was bound to a board and placed aboard a travois. The Archer led his party off.
Misha woke with the sounds of battle reverberating through his head. It was still dark outside-the sun would not rise for some time-and his first considered action was to go into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and washed down three aspirin. Some dry heaves followed, over the toilet, but all that came out was yellow bile, and he rose to look in the mirror to see what treason had done to a Hero of the Soviet Union. He could not-would not-stop, of course, but but look what it is doing to you, Misha. The once clear-blue eyes were bloodshot and lifeless, the ruddy complexion gray like a corpse. His skin sagged, and the gray stubble on his cheeks blurred a face that had once been called handsome. He stretched his right arm, and as usual the scar was stiff, looking like plastic. Well. He washed out his mouth and trudged off to the kitchen to make some coffee. At least he had some of that, also bought in a store that catered to the members of the nomenklatura, and a Western-made machine with which to brew it. He debated over eating something, but decided to stick with coffee alone. He could always have some bread at his desk. The coffee was ready in three minutes. He drank a cup straight down, ignoring the damaging heat of the liquid, then lifted his phone to order his staff car. He wanted to be picked up early, and though he didn't say that he wanted to visit the baths this morning, the sergeant who answered the phone at the motor pool knew what the reason was.
Twenty minutes later Misha emerged from the front of his building. His eyes were already watering, and he squinted painfully into the cold northwest wind that tried to sweep him back through the doors. The sergeant thought to reach out and steady his Colonel, but Filitov shifted his weight slightly to fight against the invisible hand of nature that held him back and got into the car as he always did, as though he were boarding his old T-34 for combat.
"The baths, Comrade Colonel?" the driver asked after getting back in front.
"Did you sell the vodka I gave you?"
"Why, yes, Comrade Colonel," the youngster answered.
"Good for you, that's healthier than drinking it. The baths, Quickly," the Colonel said with mock gravity, "and I might yet live."
"If the Germans couldn't kill you, my Colonel, I doubt that a few drops of good Russian vodka can," the boy said cheerfully.
Misha allowed himself a laugh, accepting the flash in his head with good humor. The driver even looked like his Corporal Romanov. "How would you like to be an officer someday?"
"Thank you, Comrade Colonel, but I wish to return to university to study. My father is a chemical engineer and plan to follow him."
"He is a lucky man, then, Sergeant. Let's get moving.
The car pulled up to the proper building in ten minutes. The sergeant let his Colonel out, then parked in the reserved spaces from which he could see the doors. He lit a cigarette and opened a book. This was very good duty, better than tromping around in the mud with a motor-rifle company. He checked his watch. Old Misha wouldn't be back for nearly an hour. Poor old bastard, he thought, to be so lonely. What miserable luck that