Swans of the Baltic by Conor Christofferson

Ivan Mikhailovich Izbyakov stood statue still at the window overlooking the Motlawa River, his face a mask of benign tranquility. A ray of late afternoon sunshine cut through the parted blinds and bathed the small studio in a sultry golden light. He leaned against the windowsill and watched a flock of gulls hovering over the river, rising and falling in the wind as if on strings.

Ivan didn’t move when the doorbell announced itself with a shrill buzz. He knew who was there. After all, this had all been foretold. The bell rang twice more in quick succession, slicing through the silence like a scythe. Ivan took a deep breath and ambled to the door.

“Did you take your medication today?” Martin Gilroy said in lieu of a proper greeting. He breezed past Ivan and dropped a small leather messenger bag onto an empty table in the center of the room.

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“Yes, fine. Hello. Have you taken your medication today?”

“Let’s not talk about that just yet. Have a drink,” Ivan said as he gently closed and locked the door.

“It’s been a long day. I’m tired. I need to know if you’re in your right mind so we can talk.”

“Yes, of course we can talk. Of course. How was your flight? Have you been to Gdansk before? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I don’t give a shit about Gdansk. I’d rather be home with my family. We need to talk.”

“So talk. Jesus, Martin, when did you become so petulant?”

Ivan lowered himself into a chair with a heavy sigh. He looked much older than his 60 years – all jowls and salt-and-pepper stubble, his head a riot of unkempt grey hair. Martin removed his navy blue pea coat, folded it delicately and hung it on the back of his chair. A musty smell permeated the sparsely furnished apartment. The third floor walk-up was, at one time, an agency safe house, but had been sitting mostly empty and disused since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

“You know why I’m here, right? This isn’t coming as a surprise to you, is it?” Martin said as he sat down across from Ivan.

“Yes, I know why you’re here.”

“Why am I here?”

“Martin.”

“Why am I here, Vanya?”

“I imagine you’re here to talk about the memo.”

“The memo?” Martin let out a burst of staccato laughter. “Is that what you’re calling it? My God, Vanya. What were you thinking? You’re off your medication, aren’t you?”

“Have a drink. We can talk about it over a drink. There’s a bottle of Zubrowka in the freezer.” 

Martin leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples. He wondered where it all went so fucking sideways with Ivan. The man had been something of a God in their small, clandestine community. His exploits during the Cold War were legendary, earning him the nickname The Spy Hunter for his uncanny ability to root out moles in any operation. Martin was a fresh-faced graduate on his first assignment abroad when he met Ivan, who was at that time the Prague Station Chief. They became fast friends, with Ivan taking the younger man under his wing and shepherding him through some of the more prickly aspects of the job. That was so long ago now, Martin thought.

“Prophesies, Vanya? You’re hearing voices? Help me understand this.”

“It’s all in the memo.”

“And what was all that shit about tools and toolmakers? You’re a tool for the devil?”

“Read the memo.”

Martin had read the memo, of course. Like everyone in their small, paranoid circle of associates, he had poured over each and every one of the 24 single-spaced pages. Wild, narcissistic ramblings about the nature of evil, seemingly random Nietzsche quotes, unhinged conspiracy theories, references to obscure 16^th century religious texts that apparently prophesized Ivan’s demise.

Martin leaned forward with his palms flat against the table and menace in his eyes.

“Fuck the memo. You’re playing a dangerous game here, old friend. They’re all very on edge back home. Do not force their hand on this. I’m begging you.”

A wry smile bloomed on Ivan’s face. 

“They? Who are they?”

“You know who they are. The agency.”

Ivan nodded calmly, scratched his chin, and locked his impossibly blue eyes on Martin.

“If that’s who they are, then who are you?”

 “I’m your friend, Vanya. I’m the guy trying to help you. Everyone respects what you’ve done for the agency, but you’re sick, and you’re painting yourself into a corner. And I can tell you that’s not where you want to be.”

Ivan flicked his hand at Martin as if shoeing away a fly.

“Ah, you don’t understand,” he said. “You’re not ready to understand.”

“Help me understand. So this prophecy you wrote about, it says you’re going to be killed? 

“Sacrificed, yes.”

“And I take it you think I’m going to be the instrument of that prophecy? You think I was sent here to kill you?”

“I believe you think you were sent here to kill me.”

“My ass is on the line, too. I vouched for you after Budapest. I told them it was a one-time thing. I told them you would take your medication. I fucking vouched for you!”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

The Budapest incident, as it came to be known, should have been the catalyst to begin dealing with Ivan’s troubles. When Martin arrived at the Four Seasons Budapest on that crisp Friday evening roughly a year earlier, he found Ivan at the hotel bar, chatting up a young woman. Nothing unusual there. Ivan was a notorious lothario and lush, who often used these low level work functions as de facto singles retreats. And that particular trip was indeed low level, nothing more than a quick document handoff with a long-trusted Hungarian source.

Martin stopped at the bar to greet his old friend and immediately sensed something was amiss. Ivan, normally a cheerful drunk, was disheveled and slurring his speech. He was speaking passionately, looming over the young woman and forcing her to lean back against the bar. She looked alarmed and somewhat frightened.

“You okay, pal?” Martin said, putting his hand on Ivan’s shoulder.

Ivan shrugged him off.

“I think your friend might need some help,” the young woman said.

“I need help?” Ivan asked. “No, no, my dear. It is you who needs help.”

Ivan slid a hand into his gray Armani suit jacket and pulled a jet black Colt .45 handgun from his shoulder holster. He held the pistol to the young woman’s face, a maniacal glint in his eye.

“I am Ares,” he hissed. “I am Azreal. I am lord of the flies.”

After a very brief melee, Martin was able to take possession of the gun and subdue his former boss. The young woman was shaken up. Hungarian police were called. It was a mess that took the intervention of several high level Hungarian and U.S. officials to clean up. Once sober, Ivan agreed to seek help – either medical or psychological – but in hindsight that night seemed to spark Ivan’s frighteningly quick downward spiral.

Now, as both men sat staring at each other in this tiny Polish apartment, Martin wondered what more he could have done to save his friend.

Just then the phone rang. Martin gave Ivan a weary look, then got up from the table and walked toward the kitchen hallway, where an ancient landline hung from the wall. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear without a greeting.

“Yes,” he said after a moment of listening. “I’m here.”

Ivan could hear a muffled voice on the other end, but couldn’t make out what was being said.

“That is yet to be determined,” Martin said. “That’s why you sent me here, right? Let me do my job.”

Martin leaned against the wall and ran his free hand through his hair, his eyes never leaving Ivan.

“Mmhmm. Mmhmm. No, listen. Mmhmm. Yes. Yes. I understand. Goodbye.”

Ivan rose from the table and returned to his earlier position at the window, where he once again peered out over the river. 

“This city is magical, isn’t it?” he said. “Did you get a chance to see the old town? It’s like something from a movie. All these beautiful, candy-colored buildings. You could almost think you’re in Amsterdam.”

“No, I didn’t,” Martin said. “Listen, old friend, I think we better have that drink after all.” 

Ivan didn’t respond. He opened the window a crack and took in a slow, deep breath.

“I first came here as a boy,” he said. “I was 7-years-old. I know that because it was the year my father died, the year we moved to America. My mother brought me here with my aunt Ksusha. I don’t remember why. But it was so different from my hometown. Norilsk was cold and flat. It was an ugly place, a sad place. Gdansk was so colorful and alive. We took a train to Sopot and saw the Baltic Sea. Martin, I wish you could see it. These magnificent white swans swimming in the sea. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. They float in on the surf and approach you on the beach. I was very frightened of them at first. They were big and somewhat aggressive because tourists would feed them bread. My mom looked at me with this stern expression on her face and said, ‘Vanya, Glaza strashat, a ruki delayut.’ It translates to ‘the eyes are scared, but the hands keep moving.’ I’ve lived by that, Martin. I don’t let fear stop me from doing what needs to be done. What needs to be done now is to fight against the devil. Fight against the toolmaker. And the eyes of the blind will be opened. And the ears of the deaf will be unstopped.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ivan. Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear how insane you sound? I really don’t understand this.”

“My friend, look within yourself. Of course you understand. They are the toolmakers and we are their tools of destruction. We have subverted God’s laws. We are the tools of the devil, and we must be punished.”

Martin returned to the table holding an ice-cold bottle of vodka under his arm and two shot glasses between his fingers. He filled both glasses to the brim with syrupy vodka, then took a long pull directly from the bottle. He sat down and reached into his leather messenger bag. Inside the bag was a small gun safe, which he had picked up at a dead drop near the train station.  

Bzzzzzzzz

The buzz of the doorbell seemed to reverberate through the apartment. Martin looked to Ivan, who was still staring out the window. 

“Ivan? Are you expecting someone?” 

Martin noticed a note of fear in his voice as he said this. He quickly rifled through the pocket of his pea coat until he found a small key. The steel safe opened with a creak and Martin put his hand in the void where a Glock 19 should have been.

Bzzzzzzzz

“Martin, my boy, did you really think they were going to give you a gun?” Ivan asked without taking his eyes off the window. 

Bzzzzzzzz

Martin swallowed hard and felt a bead of sweat forming on his hairline. 

“I told you about my prophecy,” Ivan said, finally turning away from the window and looking at Martin. “I told you I would be sacrificed. What I didn’t tell you was that you were also in the prophecy.”

Bzzzzzzzz

“Martin, I think you better answer the door. Glaza strashat, a ruki delayut.”

Conor Christofferson

Image from wikimedia commons

*Photographer: C. Michael Hogan *Subject: near shore Baltic Sea mixed flocks of mute swans and cormorants, near alby, sweden *Date: July 2006