Free The Right Hand by Derek Haas

making progress without sounding any alarms, and he didn’t want to risk a break-in if he didn’t have to. His scent, he hoped, had disappeared from the hounds charged with hunting him.
    After three days of bumping along back roads, praying that a sudden storm wouldn’t muddy things up, he jogged back to the main motorway that headed into Vladivostok. The sun was out and felt warm on his face.
     
    Clay’s stomach cramped, and he realized he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. He was narrowing in on Vladivostok from the north but wasn’t sure how far he had to go. When he saw a small motel with a few cars in front, he eased into the lot. Smoke was curling up from a stovepipe affixed to the roof, and he could smell meat cooking. His stomach made some noise, presumably to voice its approval.
    Inside, the motel was dark, with a low wooden ceiling that barely cleared his head. A small desk to the right must have been for reception, but it was unmanned. Two long wooden tables stood a little farther into the room, with benches on either side, occupied by simply, inelegantly dressed customers. The smells of eggs, potatoes, butter, and roasted beef mingled with cigarette smoke and formed a wreath around his head.
    An overweight man wearing what looked like a smock gestured from a kitchen door to a seat at the end of the second table. The man spoke Russian with a flat, hollow accent and said something along the lines of “Please, sit,” but Clay wasn’t sure he’d interpreted it correctly. He moved to the indicated seat and sat down heavily. A plastic bowl was immediately filled with soup, and Clay nodded at the family staring at him before digging in. He was expecting something bland and was surprised by the flavor; extreme hunger has a way of making everything taste gourmet.
    A girl of no more than six sat closest to him. She stared brazenly, watching as he dipped his spoon again and again into the bowl. Her mother pulled her in tight to her side, a hen protecting her chick. Her father sat across from her; he was a big man with a curly black beard and eyes spaced too far apart.
    “You’re a traveler?”
    Clay nodded as he scooped up another bite of the soup. “Driving to Vladivostok.” He could feel two tables’ worth of diners straining to hear what he had to say.
    “Wonderful. It is nice to see men traveling these roads again. We live in Ussuriysk.”
    Clay kept shoveling the soup into his mouth. He didn’t want to be impolite, but he wasn’t keen to make conversation, either. His soup bowl was whisked away when he finished, and a plate of meat and potatoes replaced it. There was not a green vegetable or a ripe piece of fruit in sight, but he didn’t mind.
    “We grow wheat. This is my wife, Dina. Our daughters are Oksana, and Lidya is the one who hasn’t stopped staring. My name is Pavel.”
    “Ivan,” Clay said, and tore into the meat. The potatoes tasted more of butter than of well, potato, but he couldn’t bring the food into his face fast enough.
    “What brings you to Vladivostok?” Pavel asked happily. He shook out a cigarette and lit the end.
    Clay stopped eating long enough to put a smile on his face and say, “I am a playwright, Ivan Parinshka. Just visiting the university.”
    Pavel beamed. “Oleg works at the university!”
    Clay felt his throat tighten, but he kept his face blank. All eyes turned to the man seated one table over, directly behind Pavel. Pavel turned and clapped the man on the back warmly. “Oleg, say hello to Ivan. He is coming to visit your university!”
    The man named Oleg spun on his bench, wiped his mustache with his napkin, cleaned his hands, then stuck one out to Clay. “Pleased to meet you.”
    “And you,” Clay said, and returned the handshake. He was suddenly full and put his fork down.
    “Did I hear you say you are a playwright?” Oleg asked. He had dark brown eyes that shone with intelligence, a sharp contrast with Pavel’s vacant expression.
    “I am. From