Joy ride (part1): Stealing

remember cousin Vas

After listening to Yakov's tale; After receiving the miserable, desperate plea that follows in complete, stone faced silence, Cousin Vas takes another long drag of his cigarette. Fills his lungs with tar and sighs out the long trail of smoke before he looks once left, then right; like he expects company on the deserted Berlin parking lot.

"Thing is. I can help."

The younger man pauses again, eyes twinkling with odd mirth in the marginal streetlight. Taking his time to force that long, searching eye contact with his uncle. Making Yakov feel that odd mix of uncomfortable old uselessness and prickling ancient distrust. Cousin Vas is Yakov's nephew, but everyone calls him Cousin Vas. he's a hustler; a fast boy. And Yakov knows, with a certainty in his soul, that man is trouble. The wife, Angelica, had warned Yakov not to trust Cousin Vas. least of all, with this.

"But, you will have to choose whom I help."

-

"Becky's gonna laugh her ass off when I tell her." A week later Bakushka has his own cigarette in his mouth, marching with that kind of excited energy he's had ever since he came back from his infiltration. An infiltration that had him attend a cinema. They have spent the last year here; Yakov and his detail, in what is being referred to now as East Berlin. They have done well for themselves; good work. Perfect missions. Trapping left over Nazis left and right. Good work, especially by Bakushka. Except on that last one; that aborted mission. According to mission command, Bakushka never even made it to the main movie. Left half-way through the newsreels.

"Becky?" Yakov asks, uncertain; hardly able to keep up. Out-of-breath and sweating already in his coat; too-hot for summertime in Berlin.

"My sister." The man answers dismissively, in that effortless, drawled American that is his default now. A gesture with his only hand, cigarette trailing smoke trailing after it in the evening light. Becky. Another name-that-is-not-a-name. Just like Bucky -Bucky! That's what his Bakushka would like to be called now. Which Yakov thinks isn't a real name at all. Not even eligible for a dog. But then, Americans are weird like that.

And seriously, how is this his life? When the brass had agreed to grant Yakov custody over the one armed man, swayed by his assessment that he would be worth it; willing to agree party resources because Yakov had proven, time and again, to have an eye for this.. Well; this is not what Yakov had seen in his future.

Perhaps, Yakov wonders; perhaps he is simply cursed. It's the only explanation he has why he finds himself here, heading towards that abandoned parking lot where he'd rendezvoused first with his nephew. His last resort, to save their necks. Just when his life had picked up, from that hole. From near certain death; the fear and depression when he'd heard of his dear Danska.

Sadness, of course. But, more so: the terror of knowing they would come for him too.

What had his cousin Vas called it again?

-

"Accused of Depravities. Nasty business. Firing squad, was it?"

Defensively, Yakov pushed his hands deep in his pocket, eyes averting. He could only hope the light of his own cigarette, caught between dry lips, didn't illuminate enough of his flinch. Still, a moment of foolish bravery; a piece of useless loyalty compelled Yakov to speak up. "My Danska was a fine man, and a brave soldier. Loyal. He.. he deserved better."

"Oh, believe me, I know." Vasily grins, wickedly. Too knowingly; too smug. "Your Danska would have gone a long way. But, he's nothing like the Bakushka, is he?"