Page 49 of Enemy of My Enemy
Sergey turned back around, heading for the doors to Voronov’s office. He entered quietly and padded through the few rooms Voronov had outfitted for Sergey. X-ray, examination, even surgery. And, on the right, a private recovery room. He’d never used it, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
The door was open, and Sergey realized his mistake as soon as he poked his head through the door.
Sasha Andreyev was awake. His head popped up from the newspaper he’d been reading by the light of the single desk lamp when he heard Sergey’s shoes squeak.
They stared at each other, frozen, for a long moment.
Sasha moved first, throwing back the covers and trying to jump to his feet. “Mr. President.” He tried to salute, but doubled over, falling sideways back to the bed. Cringing, Sasha bowed his head. “Mr. President, I apologize.”
Sergey moved, going to steady Sasha, but aborted, coming up short. He stood awkwardly at the foot of Sasha’s bed and his hands gripped the metal frame. “Do not apologize. And do not stand. Do not salute. You need to recover your strength. Rest.”
Sasha winced. “Yes, sir.” He still didn’t move, just stayed with his head bowed, breathing hard.
“Are… you feeling better?” He had no idea what to say.
“I am no longer dying.”
“Spoken like a true Russian.” Sergey grinned. It faded, replaced by stilted silence.Do something.
Sergey crossed to the lone chair next to the bed. He sat stiffly, long arms clasped between his knees. Sasha followed his movements but still kept his head down.
“Please, get comfortable. Do not suffer.” Sergey waited, and when Sasha didn’t move, he grabbed his pillow and started fluffing it. He was awkward, but Sasha twisted around, shocked, and Sergey grinned again. “So you are not a statue.”
Sasha slid carefully back on the bed, leaning against the pillow. “No. Former Senior Lieutenant Sasha Andreyev. MiG pilot.” He looked down at his hands. “But not anymore.”
“Dr. Voronov told me what you said happened to you.”
Sasha swallowed, and a dark glower settled on his face.
“There was… no other reason for this attack?” Sergey fumbled for the right thing to say. He was doing it all wrong. “Nothing else that could have angered your fellow pilots?”
“No.” Sasha looked up, and Sergey’s breath shorted. Fire filled Sasha’s ice-blue eyes, a pure rage focused squarely on Sergey. Dark bruises and the swollen right half of Sasha’s face twitched. “I thought they were my friends. I was a good officer. I worked hard. I had to be perfect. I wanted to be a cosmonaut one day.” He shook his head, blinking fast, and looked away. “The only reason there was for this was because I amgoluboi.” His chin dropped. “Pidor.”
“Do not say that,” he said firmly and reached out, grabbing hold of Sasha’s shoulder. “Do not call yourself that. I read your military record. You are a great Russian. An officer in our Air Force. Beproudof who you are.”
Wide eyes shone with held-back tears. Sasha’s chin trembled.
Sergey squeezed his shoulder again.
“I hate that I am—” Sasha choked out. He shook his head. “I tried to fix it. I tried to change.” He gasped. “I did what I had to, to survive. I put up with this… thisuncontrollable need. Tried to keep it contained. Only sought release… rarely. I never toldanyone.” His eyes burned and his breaths came fast. “Everything about this, about what I am, Ihate.” He pitched forward, burying his face in his palms as he howled. Beneath Sergey’s hand, Sasha’s shoulder shook. He sobbed, rivers of grief, a lifetime of self-hate, flowing through this fingers.
What could he do in the face of so much pain? He felt so small, so inadequate, confronted with Sasha’s anguish. Jack’s face, his voice, floated through Sergey’s mind. Had his friend ever felt this way? Had Jack ever hated himself? Had he ever struggled with who he was and his own worth?
What would Jack do if he were here?
Sergey slid onto the bed, sitting beside Sasha and pulled him close. “Why are you saying these things? A great Russian like you should not be hating himself. No, no, it is not right.”
Sasha’s tears rained down on Sergey’s white shirt, but he stroked his hand up and down Sasha’s arm. Sasha’s head fell to Sergey’s shoulder, tears still falling as he breathed shallowly through his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.
Sergey rolled his head back, resting it on the top of the metal headboard.
He would dare tomorrow. He would speak. If it was the last thing he did.
* * *
Russian President Vehemently Denounces Leaked American Intelligence Cables;
Pledges Public Support for American President in the Hunt for Madigan
