The Right Hand Read online

  The abuse was never sexual. With the hefty insurance claim, Uncle Bobby loaded up with liquor, pulled anchor, and set sail for open water. He had a vague notion—maybe the only romantic notion he’d ever had—that he would sail around the world, teaching the boy about life, about sailing, about travel, about women, and would give him a real education, not the kind they taught you in brick-and-mortar schools. He had always kept his drinking in check before; he’d been responsible enough to support himself chartering out to tourists from Baja to Santa Barbara. But something about the open water, about the financial windfall, about the plentiful supply of liquor in the stores, loosened his will, and he found himself nipping more from the bottles each day.

  Any plans he had to teach the boy died in the first three months at sea. Austin discovered a survival instinct that was innate—if he was going to live, he would have to teach himself every inch of that boat. He’d have to know how to tie the knots, how to jib, how to tack, how to adjust the boom, how to keep the engine tuned, how to keep the oil out of the bilge, how to fish, how to cook, how to clean, and how to make himself small when his uncle balled his fists.

  He woke to see Marika staring at him. She had pulled all the curtains across the windows so the only light inside the cabin came from a dusty floor lamp. Her hands were in her lap and her eyes were wide, like a naturalist observing a wild animal.

  Clay sat up and rubbed his temples. Truth be told, his head was pounding. He didn’t get headaches often, but when they came, they were beasts. He stood up, and she flinched. He thought about ignoring it, but something made him hold his palms up and say to her, “It’s okay. I’m on your side.”

  She nodded but kept her expression neutral, closed.

  “Is there clean water here?”

  She nodded and pointed to a tiny kitchenette.

  He returned in a few moments with two full glasses and set one in front of her. He gestured for her to drink and she complied.

  “None of this is your fault. I want you to know that.”

  She nodded and then said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  Well, that is good, Clay thought. She’s rational about it, which means she’s not in shock. He wondered how long he’d slept. His headache was easing. He fought the urge to go over and open the curtain, gauge where the sun stood in the sky, but the next few minutes would go a long way toward establishing trust, and Marika wasn’t ready to be exposed to windows anytime soon.

  “Do you know if there’s a phone here?”

  “Next to the bed in the bathroom. I did not try it.”

  “Okay, listen. I’m going to make a call to a man in the United States. He is going to arrange for us to leave the country and go where no one can harm you, where no one will find you, yes?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because this is what I do. I promise I’ll keep you safe if you’ll do as I say when I say it.”

  “You didn’t keep David safe.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m not infallible. But I am very good at my job and I hate to say it, but David was not my mission. You were my mission. And now my job is to get you out of here. You have my word that I’m going to successfully do that.”

  She nodded again, but he wasn’t sure whether it indicated acceptance or was just to get him to stop talking.

  He stood and finished his water. She stared down at her half-filled glass. He wanted to hold her, to hug her, to protect her with his arms, but he didn’t.

  Stedding’s voice was gruffer than usual.

  “They want an exchange.”

  “What?”

  “Nelson for the girl.”

  “How did you— Who wants an exchange?”

  “Both sides. Deliver Marika Csontos to the embassy in Moscow, then check in when you’re out of the country. I’ll meet you in Europe for a debriefing and we’ll discuss your next assignment.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Stedding.”

  He waited a moment, unsure if his handler was still on the line. Finally, the voice came through, strained as tight as a guitar string. “What don’t you understand?”

  “I found her just as an elite FSB team was trying to put an end to her. Now you’re asking me to turn her over so they can…what? Finish the job?”

  “Wrong. I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m commanding you. These marching orders are directly from the DCI, and you will follow them. There’s a shitstorm brewing between Moscow and DC right now, and you’re at the heart of it. Getting Nelson back was the mission; it still is the mission. The key, as you said, was finding the girl, and you did that. Now dropping her off will get our asset back, and you’ll get to keep working autonomously and anonymously, and some secret commendation will go in some secret file in the basement of Langley and you’ll be on to the next thing.”

  The dull ache in Clay’s head was back.

  “All right, Stedding.”

  “Now I’m worried. Where’s the wise-ass response?”

  “My head’s pounding. I’ll work up some barbs later.”

  “When can you get to Moscow?”

  “Three days.”

  “Talk to you then.”

  The line clicked and buzzed and fell silent.

  He waited a few minutes, then returned to the big room. Marika had not stirred from her spot.

  “If you want to clean up or rinse off or do whatever you need to do to get ready, we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Moscow.”

  She whitened, so he added, “The American embassy there,” but he kept his eyes lowered. He knew what he had to do, so he had already thrown a mental switch. She was not a she anymore, not to him. She was a folder, a file, a pack—something he had acquired and now needed to turn over to his own government. It had to be this way. He had a job to do, and this assignment ended in Moscow, and it didn’t matter what happened after that because she would be somebody else’s problem. There it was again. Not she. It.

  She watched him, unblinking, but didn’t say anything. It was as though she’d been reading his thoughts and now didn’t know how to handle him, as if she couldn’t keep up with the shaking sand underneath her feet. After a minute, she rose, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. Soon after, he heard the water in the shower running. It would be cold but clean.

  The water in Brazil was warm. His uncle had guided them to Paraty to stock up on gas, food, and most importantly, liquor. It was January, so the weather was sunny, and they had hugged the Brazilian coast for more than a month, parked outside Ilha Grande, fishing and keeping to themselves. Occasionally a yacht would sail close. His uncle would be awkward on good days and rude when he was drunk, and the chance for human contact would evaporate like a mirage. Every now and then, Clay would spot a child on board one of these cruisers and they would stare at each other, but they might as well have had the entire ocean between them.

  “Check on the bilge,” his uncle would say. Or just “Head below,” and he would enter his tiny cabin, lie on his bunk, and stare at the ceiling until his vision blurred.

  Run.

  He couldn’t say when the idea first crept into his thoughts, but it had seemed to possess him from the time he was seven.

  Run.

  He had been through kindergarten before his parents died, and he had been one of the early readers in Ms. Britton’s class. He had learned all the sight words—the, a, into, but, and, go, a hundred others—and he had the foundation for putting sounds to letters. Blessedly, his uncle liked to read while he drank and had a collection of historical and crime fiction Clay could pinch. Books like Eye of the Needle and The Eagle Has Landed became his elementary school primers.

  The book that saved him, though, was The Mouse That Roared. He picked it up thinking maybe he’d finally found a book written for him, for his age, but though it turned out to have been written for adults, it was different from anything else he’d read. The book centered on a tiny forgotten pissant country t
hat stole an atom bomb out of New York City and brought the world’s powers to their knees. It was hilarious and ludicrous and satirical, but an idea was planted in his mind and took shape. The mouse could roar.

  Run.

  Two girls with long legs and short bikinis told his uncle about Paraty. If he docked there, he could load up on everything he needed, anything he needed. Clay was ten, but even he knew what they meant.

  He was only allowed off the boat to help load supplies, and this time would be no exception. A few bruises under his shirt and a cigarette burn on his side let him know the price of trying to talk to anyone while they were docked.

  Run.

  He would wait until his uncle had been gone an hour and then he would do it. Any shorter than an hour and he risked that the bastard would have stopped at the nearest bar with a clear view of the port. Any longer and maybe his uncle would stumble home early after annoying the wrong bartender. One hour and then he’d take off.

  When he heard his uncle’s heavy footsteps lift from the deck onto the dock, he started the count, but every minute burned away as hot and slow as roasting embers. He could feel his heart racing and he tried his best to calm it, but that only made the beating worse. He couldn’t sit still for the full hour. After twenty-seven minutes, when it felt as if the walls of his cabin were going to press him flat, he stuck his head out of the hatch and looked around. The sun was down and the docks appeared empty. Laughter drifted over from somewhere to his left, and the sound buoyed him. He breathed once, choked down a stomach spasm, and made his move.

  No one stopped him.

  The street at the end of the dock twisted up toward an old mission and was lined with souvenir shops. Christmas lights blinked over the shop fronts, and multicolored flags and pennants crisscrossed above the street. Was it Christmas already? Had it passed? He couldn’t remember.

  His legs felt wobbly and the horizon seemed to roll as if the earth were made of water. He didn’t know if that was from being at sea for so long or from his heart exploding inside his chest. A screen door slammed to his right and he jumped. A couple stumbled out, hands all over each other, but the man was too tall to be his uncle. Some kids a little older than him moved his way, kicking a soccer ball, and they stared at him as if he were in an aquarium. One called to him in a language he didn’t understand. The smile on the kid’s face conveyed the opposite of what that expression generally intends.

  Clay turned on his heels just as a pair of military police officers stepped out of an apartment doorway. The kid said something to him again and took a step forward, holding his hands up while his friends laughed.

  Clay shook his head and hurried over to the officers.

  “You must help me.”

  The first officer stepped aside so his partner could stoop down. The man had soft eyes and a kind face. “English?” he asked gently.

  “American.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Yes…I—”

  “What’re you doing there?” Uncle Bobby’s voice erupted just behind him. Clay catapulted behind the officers, tucking in behind their legs.

  “This boy is yours?”

  “I’m his uncle. We’re Americans.”

  Clay could see his chance evaporating. He made a decision to lay everything on the table. “He kidnapped me! He beats me! Look! Look!”

  Clay pulled up his shirt and showed the purple bruises in clear relief against his skin. The kind officer ran his fingers over the splotches, then wheeled on his uncle.

  “This is a serious thing.”

  His uncle’s nostrils flared and he glared fire at the boy. Just walk away, Clay thought. Just walk away and sail away and leave me here. I’m not worth the trouble.

  A kind of grudging resolve replaced the anger on his uncle’s face. He reached into his back pocket, fished out his wallet, and withdrew a fistful of bills.

  “All right, Officers. Sorry to inconvenience you. Here’s a bonus to the Federale fund.” He thrust the bills forward while Clay watched, his stomach lurching. The two officers stared at the proffered bills but didn’t take them. Clay’s uncle sighed, licked his thumb, and counted out five more bills. This time he pressed them into the kind-looking officer’s hand. His fingers then circled Clay’s small wrist and jerked him away from the apartment’s stoop, back toward the dock. Clay dug his heels in like a dog fighting a leash.

  “No!” he screamed, and reached back for the Brazilian officers, but they stood there dumb, immobile. With every bit of his strength, Clay wrenched his wrist down, freeing himself. Surprised, he spun like a top and began to run for the streets.

  He made it only two steps before he felt the wind knocked out of his stomach as a foot flew out of nowhere to catch him flush in the gut. He crumpled over from the kick as the kind-faced police officer pulled his foot back. Then he felt himself picked up by the collar and handed back over to his uncle, who nodded appreciatively.

  That was the day Clay learned that all men had a price, some cheaper than others. It was a lesson he would keep at the forefront of his mind until he was dead.

  They dumped the car for a truck and the truck for a van as they headed west. She slept most of the first day, and he preferred it that way. Sleeping meant not talking, and not talking meant he could keep on thinking of her as an object. He had sacked the pantry of a tiny restaurant on the outskirts of Khabarovsk and taken cans of beans and boxes of crackers from the backs of shelves. The theft would go unnoticed, at least for a little while. Russian agents would be scouring all the police reports around Vladivostok for any signs of the fugitives. He hoped they would believe he’d keep heading east, catch a freighter over to Japan, out of the country, as soon as he had the girl. Instead, he followed a northern route through Siberia, swinging up through the plains, though not so high up as to hit snow.

  He looked over and the girl was staring at him. He grimaced, looked away, and when he looked again, she was still watching his face. If she weren’t so goddamn stunning, this would be—

  “You never told me your name,” she said.

  He ran through the checklist of his thoughts—Don’t tell her, use a cover name—and then, for some reason he couldn’t explain, crossed them off and said, “Austin.”

  She repeated it, and it sounded funny in her pronunciation. For the first time, a smile broke across her face and lit up the car. He was glad he had told her his name.

  “Have you been to Los Angeles?” she asked.

  He thought the question funny but didn’t want to embarrass her. “Once or twice.”

  “It is my dream to go there.”

  “You want to be discovered?”

  “Discovered?”

  “Act in movies?”

  “Oh, no. I have no talent for it. I want to see Mickey Mouse.”

  “Ahhh…”

  “Do you think they will let me do that?”

  A twinge of pain rippled through Clay, but he kept it off his face. “I’m sure they will.”

  She folded her hands in her lap, pleased. “Are there many Hungarians in Los Angeles?”

  “There are many everything there.”

  She laughed. “When you came through the door, I thought you were the most frightening man I’d ever seen. I am pleased to know you are funny.”

  He should just stop, stop talking, stop engaging, and drive on, keep the conversation short, trifling, but he seemed powerless to check himself. The snowball was already rolling downhill, and an avalanche seemed inevitable. What was it about this girl?

  “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Wife?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “It is forbidden?”

  “It’s just too hard in this line of work. I have to…” He searched for the correct Russian term. “Keep secrets? Leave for a new destination at any time. Sometimes for months…​years. It would be difficult…very difficult for a wife. It would be unfair of me to put anyone through that. Selfish, yes?�
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  She nodded. “I would like to be married someday. There was a boy on my street named Jani I thought would marry me.”

  “Yes?”

  “His parents moved away. I don’t know where they went. One day he was my neighbor and the next he was gone. It was a long time ago.” She wiped her hands on her pants leg as though she were wiping away the memory.

  “I’m sure you’ll find many willing suitors in California.”

  “I’ll have to learn English.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  “I don’t—”

  “How do you say chicken?”

  He laughed. “Why chicken?”

  “I like chicken.”

  He told her how to say it in English and she did her best to repeat it.

  A new thought occurred to him. What if she was on to him, had observed his change in demeanor and concluded he was not willing to help her anymore? What if this conversation in the car was an act, a way to humanize her in his mind, a way to get him to connect with her, care for her? Was she that calculating? Was it an innate survival mechanism? That smile? The warmth, the honesty of her voice? The sensitivity in her eyes?

  My God, he thought. If this is all a scheme, it’s working.

  “What did you hear?”

  Her smile faded. “Hear?”

  “The Kremlin official. Your employer. Benidrov. What did he tell you that put you in so much danger?”

  She turned her eyes to the window. A vast plain stretched out to the horizon. Theirs was the only vehicle for twenty miles in either direction.

  Her voice cracked as she spoke. “He told me so many things that didn’t make sense—names, people, departments within the government—I had never heard of them. It was all meaningless to me. It was all so stupid. Meaningless and stupid. I didn’t ask him to tell me these things.”

  “If it was all meaningless, why did you run?”

  “He frightened me. He would say things.” She lowered her voice to imitate him. “‘You don’t understand what I’m telling you, my little flower, and that is good. If you did I’d have to pluck out all your petals.’ Every day, he’d say this to me. Vomit out his nonsense and then brag about me not knowing what he was saying while threatening me at the same time. The tension built and built until I couldn’t take it anymore. How he learned I knew Russian I don’t know, but he came home and tried to strangle me. But he couldn’t even do that right. I managed to get my knee into him and ran off with nothing but the clothes on my back. I heard he killed himself after that. I knew I had to disappear, but all I can tell you is I don’t remember anything he told me. Not one word of it.”