A/N: Sorry again for such a long absence from this story! I promise not to let it go unfinished (that's a pet peeve of mine) but please bear with me as I sort through some tough times! Hopefully this chapter makes the wait somewhat worth it... The action is picking up...
Blinking furiously, Anatoly opened his eyes to see Viigand relinquishing the cord to the blinds in their train compartment, a smirk on the blond man's face. He didn't remember falling asleep, but then again, the entire trip took almost twenty-four hours, so Anatoly hardly blamed himself for dozing off. Vast expanses of green stretching up to meet the sky flew past his eyes as they finally adjusted to the bright Hungarian morning – it surprised him somewhat to see how similar the countryside looked to that of some of Russia, although, he mused, it probably should not. After all, southern Russia in the Ukrainian province was not very far at all from Hungary, and indeed, they were all consolidated now, a collection of states.
Two years ago, Anatoly would not have given a second thought to his addled mind's ramblings, yet his experiences with Florence had left his eyes opened to injustice that he never expected to see. Florence was refreshing – she did not constantly blindly praise the Soviet Union like some of the people he had grown up around, or even some of his neighbors. She saw it at face value: even though politics would say she was a Soviet, Florence was always quick to declare herself a Hungarian.
So as he heard the first screeches of the engine signaling their arrival to Budapest, Anatoly was curious, more curious than he had anticipated being, and less sad, although he thought that might change as they approached the prison. He wanted to see for himself if there was any distinguishing factor between the country – province, he mentally corrected, stealing a glance at Molokov – and Russia. If they were all as similar as the government suggested, why then was it that Florence was so passionate in defending her homeland?
Molokov cleared his throat noisily, interrupting Anatoly's musings. "Good morning, comrade. I trust you slept well."
Anatoly nodded, not willing to say anything until he was more confident in his situation. Well, there's one thing that the last years have taught me.
"Once the train arrives at the station, there will be a car prepared to drive us to the prison. We are striving for anonymity, and I would suggest you remain silent until we arrive at our final destination, seeing as the people of Budapest do not harbor many amiable feelings towards those from Moscow." He sniffed. "You would think they would realize the good that Russia has done for them. Over twenty years have passed, and they are still angry."
"Since 1956?" Anatoly could not help his caustic interjection, even though his better judgment cautioned him from sparring with Molokov. "I can't imagine how they could forget what happened."
The political man eyed him shrewdly before saying in a low voice, "I believe your affiliations with the English woman have skewed your perceptions of our nation, comrade. It is not wise to let others cloud your judgment."
She is Hungarian! He bit back the words and tried to calm his mind.
"As I was saying, once we have arrived at the prison, Comrade Viigand will accompany you to the cells for treasonous prisoners; Russia must do her best to make the situation appear plausible. I will speak with the main warden – as per our agreement, de Courcy has already spoken with him, under Russia's terms, of course. The warden is merely a formality."
Nodding again, Anatoly stole another glance out the window, where various stone buildings were appearing more steadily as the train slowed down. From what he could see, Budapest was nothing like Moscow. He had expected a thriving city, yet he saw impersonal people doing impersonal things: no one appeared to talk, and men in uniform patrolled the streets.
The train ground to a halt, and the wooden platform and brick station appeared in Anatoly's small window. Molokov stood, as did Viigand and Anatoly, and they all reached for their small cases. Anatoly stretched – being in a train compartment for just under a day's time was taxing to his tall frame, and he could feel his knees protest as he stood, not to mention his head, which nearly reached the top of the doorframe as the trio left the compartment and entered the hallway.
Their sector of the train was fairly empty, so it was not as much of a hassle to disembark as it looked to be in other cars, where crowds were pouring out of single doors onto the platform. Molokov led the way, followed by Anatoly, Viigand in the rear. They must be afraid to lose me in Budapest, Anatoly observed, chuckling. Although just where they think I would run, I am not sure.
Towards the edge of the platform, the car was waiting as planned – a black, nondescript vehicle that blended well with the wary city. As they approached, the driver approached Molokov and began speaking rapidly. Anatoly stretched his ears, yet the dialect puzzled him. Indeed, the man did not sound Russian at all! Having spent time abroad playing chess, Anatoly had been exposed to many different tongues, but this man's escaped him entirely.
His confusion was alleviated when Molokov demanded roughly for the man to speak Russian. But what do they speak, that isn't Russian? They are part of the Union…
Continuing in lilting, heavily-accented Russian, the driver spoke. "I take you to the prison. Treason there. You search prisoner, I drive to prison."
Molokov nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Very well, comrade." Turning to face Anatoly, he added, "Magyar, a language that the people hold onto dearly, as it seems to represent their individuality among the Soviets."
Oh. I wonder if Florence understands it…
Ж Ж Ж
The prison was a sight, a looming brick structure outside of Budapest with various signs on the stone in an alphabet Anatoly could not understand. Probably their Magyar. When they entered, Molokov directed Viigand and Anatoly to one sector of the fortress-like building as he went another direction, as he had discussed on the train. The moment he was out of earshot, Anatoly couldn't resist asking Viigand some questions.
"How much do you know of what's expected for us to do?"
"The same as you, comrade," Viigand replied icily. "Comrade Molokov trusts no one – you should know that."
"Am I the only one that knows enough to guess at Gregori Vassy's height and build?"
Viigand shrugged. "I suppose I could make an educated guess. I've seen Miss Vassy, and she's eye-catching enough for a man to learn her figure."
Anatoly bristled at his former second's carefree remark.
"But why am I here?"
"Only Comrade Molokov can answer that, but we have a duty to do for Russia," Viigand continued brusquely. "Let us not forget that, Comrade Sergievsky."
When they reached the block for the 'treasonous' inmates, Anatoly's curiosity was piqued even more. He was stunned to find that nearly every person in a cell was tall, thin, and of dark coloring like Florence. The weight of a hand on his shoulder made him glance behind him.
"Perhaps now you understand why your presence was desired," Viigand said calmly. "We trust you to do your duty." With that, he stepped away, leaving Anatoly to wander through the complex.
He could see that none of the prisoners understood why he was walking amongst them – if they knew he was there to release one of them, he was certain there would be a commotion of some sort, but they were silent, sizing him up with glares just as he was doing to them. After his first pass down the row of sixteen cells, he saw perhaps twelve faces that could pass for Florence's father. Turning around to walk back towards Viigand, he spoke softly, assessing that there was no harm if he didn't reveal any of his business. "What are your names?"
Mainly, he was met with blank stares in faces which hardened immediately, he guessed upon hearing the spoken Russian. Embarrassed, he apologized quietly, and did not attempt anything of the sort again. Instead, he tried to detach himself from the morbid situation by strictly analyzing the men's facial features.
This one had Florence's eye shape, and of course her coloring. Yet her nose was thinner, and her face was rounder than this man's pointy, rodent-like visage.
The next was tall, standing a good head above Anatoly, which he doubted looked like Florence's father because the girl herself only reached to Anatoly's nose.
Looking back to Viigand, Anatoly asked, "How do we know that Vassy is not here?"
"Comrade Molokov assured me that he had looked at the records," Viigand replied calmly, watching Anatoly go about his task like a cat would watch a mouse hole.
"If all of the records are kept in their language, how does he understand them?"
"I trust Comrade Molokov, as should you."
Anatoly ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I am just asking if there is the slightest possibility that he could have made a mistake in the records – some of these men look remarkably like Florence."
"I suppose you are lucky, then, to have found one that so closely resembles Miss Vassy. Have you made your choice?"
"Leonid, answer my question."
"I would suggest that you be more careful in your accusations, Comrade Sergievsky," Viigand replied levelly.
Anatoly exhaled forcefully before making an effort to calm himself again.
"Comrade Viigand—"
"Perhaps you should continue your search before Comrade Molokov arrives to observe your progress."
Giving up, but no less frustrated with the blond man, Anatoly turned back to the row of inmates and tried to recall Florence's information about her mother, thinking that if he could mentally see her and her mother, he could make an educated guess to her father's appearance. He recalled only small things that Florence had said, like the length of her hair as she remembered it, or the sound of her voice. No concrete details, like the color of her eyes, or whether she was of the same Hungarian coloring as the rest of the family.
Think, man! He paced in the building, sometimes glancing back up at some of the inmates, but mostly wracking his brain for memories of Florence and her descriptions of her childhood. You weren't exactly concerned with her childhood, though, his mind reminded him, which he was ashamed to admit as true. When she told the few stories she did remember, he was more concerned with the implications of Russia's actions to Hungary in the infamous year than in her story or family history.
Well, clearly I was a bastard to all the women I've been in contact with over the past few years.
Looking up with a sigh, he decided to try speaking again, regardless of the language barrier. "Do any of you speak Russian?" Actually… no, I don't think Gregori would have spoken Russian. But Florence's English is so faultless… Would he speak that? "English?" He asked, grasping at threads. "Do you speak English?"
One dark head turned to Anatoly from behind the cell bars, and replied. "Are you English?"
Excitedly, Anatoly shook his head. "No, but I would like to speak with you, if you don't mind."
The man shrugged, and Anatoly scrutinized him. Tall, but not outrageously so. Dark, like the others, but with paler skin. There were no overt similarities, but he continued to speak. "What is your name?"
By this time, Anatoly could see that Viigand had caught interest, although his English wasn't as good. "Talking with the inmates now, are you?" He questioned light-heartedly, but with a serious glint in his eyes.
"Just trying to gain information," Anatoly replied with a small smile. "If there is a possibility of actually returning Florence her father, I would be very eager to pursue it."
Viigand shook his head, but didn't say anything. Anatoly turned back to the prisoner, who was frantically trying to follow the quick, quiet Russian spoken in front of him. "Your name?" Anatoly asked again.
"Ferenc Varga," the inmate replied, and Anatoly's excitement died in his chest. "What is your business here, Russian?"
"I am looking for a family member," Anatoly replied, the white lie rolling easily off his tongue. "I was told he was a prisoner here for a long time, and I have just come across the means of securing his release."
Ferenc tilted his head and considered what Anatoly had just said before replying. "I would very much like to escape this prison, Russian."
Anatoly read the unspoken desire in the man's voice: if I help you find this man, I expect to be made free.
"If you can help me find the man I'm looking for, then I will see what I can do about your release," Anatoly said quickly, trying to speak too quickly for Viigand's ears. Exactly where do my loyalties lie? If I get caught, Sveta and the girls could be in danger. But if I could do this for Florence, she would be ecstatic…
Ferenc nodded. "What is the man's name?"
"Gregori Vassy."
