You Write A Note

Some short fiction, just for fun...

This was a prompt challenge I set on the writing Discord server I lurk on and contribute to sometimes. I’ve been working my way through NK Jemisin’s The Fifth Season and there are a few chapters there written in a second-person point of view, so this was the challenge I set for everyone:

I recently started reading N.K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season and I was struck by how she writes a lot of it in 2nd person (using ‘You’ as the main point of view)- so, I offer you two paths to take: Write me a story in the 2nd person. You pick the genre, length, etc. Whatever you like. Or… Since the geopolitics of our world seem to be reverting back to The Cold War days, write me a Cold War Thriller in the style of John LeCarre or Robert Ludlum. Bonus points if it’s set in Yugoslavia and features someone driving a Yugo.

A lot of excellent stories resulted, but the one below was mine- my attempt to combine a touch of historical fiction, Cold War spy thriller, and a (probably) apocryphal story about a note that was once said to Joseph Stalin— I don’t know if it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever written, but I had fun with it- and I hope you enjoy reading it!

~~~

You didn’t sleep well the night before, but that’s not unusual on the eve of an assignment. You wake in your apartment with a start and a brief moment of panic races through you as you grab for your watch before breathing a sigh of relief. You haven’t overslept after all. Pushing aside the covers of your bed, you stumble to the window of your bedroom and pull the curtains aside, staring out into a gray, wet morning, the River Sava beneath your window like a black snake, curving to the north where it would be swallowed by the Danube. Today is the day. You will complete your mission. You might not live to see the results or ever return home to Mother Russia, but you will complete your mission. 

You push aside thoughts of your mission. You strip. You go shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, trying to fight off the anxiety. You dress. Toast gets slammed down into the old, barely functional toaster. You find jam, fresh from the market in the cupboard and smear a generous slather onto the toast. You eat. And then, once the last bite of toast is gone, then you start to think about the mission.

There would be safety if you succeeded. Maybe, maybe you could reach the safety of the Embassy, but that would put Moscow in an awkward position. No, your only chance was the river. That was it. Either river, really- but the Danube was preferable. Upriver instead of downriver? Upriver. Definitely upriver. You’d heard too many stories about Romania to be ever comfortable with the idea of seeking refuge there.

Carts, horses, chickens, counting… you stop yourself, thinking of the aphorisms they trained you on while they were teaching you perfect English, so you could infiltrate the decadent countries of the west at will. If you do well in this assignment, Moscow tells you, then maybe, next we will send you to Britain or better still, America. 

You suspect that’s what they tell all their best agents though. Tantalizing teases of a possible future with the capitalist pig-dogs that crush their workers. You could be the station chief. Or highly ranked over there. Enjoy luxuries while working to undermine the system and overthrow their corrupt governments. 

Enough, you tell yourself. It was time to focus on the mission.

You grab your coat, and hat and put your shoes on. You take one last look around the apartment, realizing how foolish the sentiment is. It has been your home for two months now, two months of waiting and planning for an opportunity to complete the mission. It’s a place you sleep, that’s all it is, you try and tell yourself that, but… it’s hard. Many a pleasant evening you’ve spent, sitting in that window, smoking the cheap cigarettes you prefer, sometimes drinking vodka, but always drinking in the view of the River Sava and the sounds of the city below you. You realize that you will miss it, but there will be more places. There always are.

You leave the apartment, shutting the door behind you. It was time to go.

First, you take the bus to the rendezvous point. The market is ideal for a dead drop and there, just behind the flower stand, you find the bag with everything you need. Government ID, military uniform and a simple brown paper package that you know is the bomb. You duck into a familiar alleyway, go to the door you’ve been to hundreds of times before, and knock twice. The cleaning lady opens it and gestures for you to come inside, quickly. She points toward a bathroom and obediently you go in there and change your clothes. You don’t know the cleaning lady’s name and she doesn’t know yours. That’s the way this always works. There have been dozens of safehouses, dozens of faceless cleaning ladies. You never know any of their names and they have never known yours.

That’s the way this always works.

In the bedroom, you unwrap the package, carefully. You think about the walk to your destination. Think about the deeply ingrained routine of your target and give yourself fifteen minutes. That might be enough. It had better be enough. You wrap the package back up and two minutes later you step out of the front door of the house, every inch a military officer.

Second, you walk to your destination. This is the important part. You have to look important, but not conspicuous. You have to walk fast enough to appear hurried, but not rushed or frantic. The idea is to get there, do the deed, and get away safely. The sidewalks, such as they are, are not busy. People don’t give you a second glance, or if they do, it’s to get out of your way and cross the street to the other side. 

Finally, you have to navigate the checkpoints. The front gate goes well. A cursory check of the identification and they wave you through. The front door of the Palace is harder. It takes more time. You begin to get paranoid, wondering why the checks are taking so long, but they too wave you through and you make your way up the stairs to the third floor. Your heart is beating faster now as you walk down the hall to his office. You’re going to do this. You’re going to show him the price of opposing Moscow. You’re going to get away safely and move onto the next mission and-

You’re into the office before you realize it and he’s there, working at his desk. He doesn’t look up as you enter. It’s going to be tight you realize. Maybe you’d have a couple of minutes to get down the hall before it goes off and the chaos begins. Package for you, sir, you say. You don’t notice that there are more than just his usual bodyguards there. Later, much later, you’ll realize that was where you should have known something was off, but then, right there, at that moment, you’re just focused on the mission. That’s the only thing that matters. The mission.

Leave it on the desk, he says, gruffly, gesticulating absently at an empty space on his desk, not looking up from whatever he’s writing.

Yes, sir, you reply and set the package down. You salute a crisp, perfect salute before turning on your heel and walking out of the door. As you’re reaching the doorway, however, the obnoxious sound of an alarm clock begins to sound.

Hold. He says. 

Later, you realize that you should have run. It might not have mattered, you might not have made it, but… you might have. It’s a ‘what if’ that will haunt you for years, but then right there at that moment, you freeze. You turn and he’s standing now. A hanger-on, an aide-de-camp, some faceless functionary rushes forward, seizes the package, and rushes it away. He shakes his head. That man just doesn’t know when to quit, does he? He flicks a finger at the guards and they rush up to you, seizing your arms, holding you there as you struggle. The disappointment is etched on his face. I didn’t think it would be you.

Then the butt of a rifle slams into the back of your head and everything goes black.

You watch as the guards drag the limp body of the would-be assassin away. It was Friday and you were considering taking a week up at your lodge in the mountains. Yes, Lividraga sounded nice. Away from all these bloody Russians. You frown in anger. This was what, the fifth one now? That bloody man just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he? Well… 

You stride to the door and fling it open. Hold, you call to the guards as they are dragging the body halfway down the hall. They drop the limp arms of the would-be assassin and straight to attention. Give me a moment, you tell them. It is time to put an end to this nonsense once and for all. Wait here.

You turn on your heel and stride back into your office, the rage burning inside of you. That man. That idiot man. That man who had shot half his damn army because of his paranoia. His ridiculous mustache caterpillar, always hibernating above his lip. His bushy eyebrows. His ridiculous revolutionary credentials. Any fool could rob a bank. You were ten times the revolutionary he was. A hundred times. You had faced down Germans in the war, the pig-dog Croats of the Ustasha, you had killed men yourself, not ground down millions into chum for your war machine. You didn’t hollow out your army and put your trust in the word of a fascist with a bad haircut and an equally ridiculous mustache.

What was it with these idiots and facial hair you wonder to yourself? You stalk over to your desk, pull the chair out and sit down. You open the desk drawer and pull out a piece of stationary. It proclaims your title, your position and you essay a smile, rubbing your hand over your bare cheek. Even on the worst days of the fighting, you’d always shave. Straight razor in the mountains, over a rough bowl filled with freezing cold water from a mountain stream. That idiot probably thought you were weak. That festering, pustulent gasbag probably thought you were decadent. The germ of the idea in your head blossomed and you smiled at the empty room in front of you.

Many of your enemies had seen that smile. Emphasis on ‘had.’

So, you write a note. You keep it simple and to the point:

Stop sending people to kill me! We’ve already captured five of them, one of them with a bomb and another with a rifle… if you don’t stop sending killers, I’ll send a very fast working one to Moscow and I certainly won’t have to send another.

You sign your name, stand back up, and seizing the paper stride back out into the hallway. The guards, you note with satisfaction, were still standing at attention. You make a note to commend their commanding officer for maintaining high levels of discipline. 

Here, you say, thrusting the piece of paper at the guard. Tie him securely and deliver him to the Russian Embassy. Make sure this note goes with him.

Yes, sir, they both bark in unison, snapping off salutes.

You nod in approval and then again, heading past your office and deciding that you needed to get away for a week. The mountains you think, Lavidraga. You can shoot some deer, take in the mountain air, be away from people. Or maybe Brijuni maybe…

Sir, you stop and turn, watching as Rankovic emerges from whatever closet or office he’s been lurking in. Well done on that one,  you tell him. He will be delivered to the Soviet Embassy with a note.

Rankovic arcs an eyebrow. A note?

Yes, a note, you say, irritably. That man needs to learn that he can only go so far before there have to be consequences.

Very good, sir. 

How did he get here? You ask as you reach the main staircase and begin to head upstairs. 

Car, Rankovic replies. He drove a Lada, I think. 

You turn your head and spit contemptuously. Lada. Soviet trash. You know what we need, Rankovic? Some day, we will make cars here. For the Yugoslav people!

Yes, sir. Rankovic replies.

You glower at him as you reach your personal quarters and fling the doors open, the pretty cleaning girl dropping into a curtsey that annoys you for just a moment. Rankovic, you say, where should we go? This city, it’s getting tiresome and dusty and a change of scenery is in order. Lavidraga?

Rankovic considers for a moment. Why not Brijuni? Enjoy some fishing perhaps.

You smile. Very well, Brijuni it is.

Another assassin is gone. A few weeks in Brijuni. You feel a rush of pleasure. This is your country. This is your land. Here, your word is the law.

You are Marshal Josep Broz Tito.