Free Night Work by David C. Taylor

up the operation, Dylan was pulled back to Russia. After that, there was silence.
    â€œYou could have gotten a letter out, just to let me know you were all right.”
    â€œWhat for? You hated me.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou were so angry.”
    â€œI got over that.” There had been anger, but it burned out until all that was left was loss. “Tell me what happened when you got back to Moscow.”
    They sat down on the mattress with their backs against the wall, a tin ashtray between them and the rum bottle within reach.
    â€œAt first they weren’t sure they believed me, and then even if they did believe me they didn’t like it much. The operation had failed. Apfel was dead and beyond their displeasure, so they took it out on me. Reeducation.” A shadow passed over her face. She chased it with a smile. “It’s amazing the things you can learn about yourself if they are pointed out forcefully enough.”
    â€œBut they decided you were all right.” He lit another cigarette.
    â€œThey decided I was too valuable an asset to throw away. An American trained from an early age. So they started me out again. Small things. And they put temptations in my way. I met people who were willing to share their unhappiness about life in Russia. I met people who could help me make money if I would help them. I was offered chances to go abroad. I understood what they were doing, so I reported them all and, after a while, they began to think I was all right.”
    â€œSo they sent you here.”
    â€œYes. I speak Spanish, and they wanted to test my commitment in a controllable situation. I’ve been here six months. Why are you here? Why did you come to Havana? Except, of course, to save me.”
    â€œI brought a prisoner down. He’d been extradited for murder.” He told her about Echevarria and what had happened to him. She was unsurprised.
    â€œColonel Fuentes. Sometimes there was no firing squad, just him and his pistol one by one. Sometimes you’re taken outside. Sometimes he does it in your cell, and then other prisoners are made to clean it up. He used me for that, on my knees, scrubbing the stones. He called it woman’s work.”
    â€œWhy were you in La Cabaña? What happened?” He passed her the cigarette.
    â€œThe usual things that make an operation go wrong. A blown tire. An army truck stopped to help the poor woman with her car in the ditch. But one of the soldiers knew the man with me. They’d been in school together, not friends, and he had heard that the man had gone into the hills with Castro. They searched the car. There were guns under the seats and in the trunk.”
    â€œA KGB operation?”
    â€œWhat do you think, Mike? Do you think I came as a tourist and decided to smuggle guns because I was bored? I am who I am. I do what I do. I was sent here to help a revolution we believe in.”
    â€œAll right.”
    She hesitated. “Sometimes I find it hard to believe in the people who say they believe the same things.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œThink of how hard it is for me to be with a Capitalist Running Dog, a lackey of the fat cats of Wall Street.” The twitch of a smile.
    â€œGood point.” Did she feel the low current of tension he felt? What was it? The memory of an intimacy only lovers share. Was it there in the way she looked at him, or was he imagining it?
    She stretched till her muscles cracked. “God, what a day. What did someone say? Nothing concentrates the mind like the prospect of hanging. Dead this morning. Alive tonight because of you. Until now I never knew how good a cigarette could taste, or rum. I never knew how much I liked being alive.” She stretched and yawned. “I have to sleep. You don’t get much sleep the night before they’re going to take you out and shoot you.” He moved so she could lie down on the mattress. As she drifted toward sleep she said in the